Illusions of Choice
by Methylethyldeth
Summary: Sequel to A Pale Shade of Night. Lord Voldemort throws Britain into chaos and courts madness in his desire for immortality. With the Order crumbling and Darkness swelling on the Continent, a bitter soul hunter takes matters in her own clawed hands.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Original elements (characters, locations, plot, etc.) are property of Methylethyldeth.

**Chapter Summary: **The demon Xhal Thos has been banished, but that's not the end of Arcana's troubles. Time steadily marches on, as it is want to do in the mortal world, bringing death ever nearer to the magic-starved fae. Despite the terrible things happening in magical Britain, Dumbledore is not moving to defeat Lord Voldemort in a timely fashion, so Arcana decides to take matters into her own clawed hands.

**Yes, this is a sequel. You'll want to read the previous installment first. **

**Author Notes:** No, I haven't been eaten by flesh-eating slugs or dissolved into a batch of potion-gone-wrong. It took much longer than expected to edit this chapter, but I think the wait was worth it. Thanks to all of the pre-posting readers for helping me shape this into the readable form you see below. Extra special thanks goes to the betas: Leon for keeping dreamy passages from becoming plain confusing, and Astraia Ourania, the deleter of excess stomachs, retriever of vanished "the"s, and identifier of sentences of doom.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Illusions of Choice**

Chapter 1: Unwelcome Interruptions

The north wind screamed across the cloudless sky as Arcana flew through a chaotic sea of Darkness. The black unicorn's raw power surged through her, driving them forward in search of despair, of loss, of that spark of longing – the call of a soul yearning for an end. Arcana clutched the black unicorn's flanks tighter as he dove through the night, finding that soul long before she could have sensed it.

Fire danced along the black unicorn's magic, lighting Arcana's being with fierce joy. She honed in on the tired soul and whispered softly to it, calling it away, offering solace and an end to pain. Silent houses packed tightly along narrow streets spread below them. Swooping lower on black wings, she felt the soul shiver, down where the electric lights flickered and the paint peeled from the siding. Arcana's sight hardly registered the filthy rags or bloodshot eyes of the drunk sprawled on the pavement. Her vision was clouded by the haze of the sickened soul within, begging for release.

"Soon," Arcana whispered, drawing an empty crystal phial from the pouch on her belt.

Suddenly a foreign power burned through Arcana's mind, breaking her connection with the soul and searing her left forearm bone-deep. The phial slipped through her gloved fingers, lost to the night. The unicorn banked sharply, and she was flung forward, nearly tumbling over his head to follow the crystal phial. She desperately clung to her mount as her mind and magic reeled. Rage flooded her being, and she screamed to the sky.

How _dare_ he?

Strong muscles flexed beneath the black hide, and the unicorn dove, intent on sating his hunger if Arcana would not take the soul for her crystal phials. A terrified scream followed Arcana's rage. She smelled death, and the street was silent.

The waning moon was shrouded in thick fog, casting a diffuse glow over the forest. White mist curled about naked branches and twisted around gnarled trunks. The moist air smelled of lichen and dead leaves, taking on a tinge of burnt earth as the black unicorn pawed the frosty ground. The Dark Lord was near, and he was not alone. His anger thrummed under Arcana's skin where the Dark Mark lay, but she felt no fear.

The hunt was not to be interrupted, and yet he dared.

Arcana's magic pulsed with her hatred, and the land responded, the air snapping with bitter cold and branches lashing in the screaming wind. At the edges of her mind she sensed the Death Eaters shiver. The masked figures were huddled up ahead in a small clearing, in a circle around their lord, the wizard who had dared Mark _her_ with his brand, who dared coerce her to give a demon her blood, who had dared interrupt her hunt – he who threatened her very life.

_Death tonight_, the black unicorn demanded, exuding an inhuman menace that made the shadows ripple.

_I long for it. Oh, I long for it_. Bound to this mortal world by the magical brand on her arm, Arcana's immortality faded every day, and only the Dark Lord's death would set her free. Images of bloody victory flashed across her vision – black robes crushed under cloven hooves. She drew a shuddering breath and pulled back the veil of the black unicorn's magic. Reason was needed now, not his vicious instinct. _Too dangerous tonight. Not tonight_, she whispered in her thoughts as they drew to the edge of the clearing, _but soon_.

The edges of several dozen masks glinted in the moonlight. A gust wailed through the woods, sending robes and cloaks snapping. There was more than winter's fury behind it, but they were blind. Arcana felt the Dark Lord's gaze, though she knew that not even he could see her in the darkness. He stood so very still, hardly more than a shadow amongst shadows. Arcana's Dark Mark seared, and she clenched her jaw. He did not like to be kept waiting.

The shadows drew back as the black unicorn stepped into the clearing, and Arcana surveyed the witches and wizards arrayed before her with disdain. The nearest Death Eaters fell out of formation, backing away from her mount, their stark fear tainting the night air, much to Arcana's delight. The moonlight caught the black unicorn's silver horn as he tossed his head, and fiery eyes promised madness to any mortal that dared look into them too long.

The Dark Lord stood motionless as the black unicorn paced toward him, the ground hissing beneath his hooves. Swathed in black from head to foot, the Dark Lord was a serpentine shadow, and within the depths of his hood, his crimson eyes burned with fury.

Arcana halted the black unicorn directly before the Dark Lord and looked down upon him with a hatred that was all her own. His gaze was empty as a serpent's, and his magic was a red-black storm. The trees creaked in the wind, their branches reaching out, as if to grasp the wizards who invaded their peace.

"You are _very_ late, hunter."

"The hunt will not be interrupted, even for you, _Dark Lord_." A snarl twisted Arcana's lips.

"You are too bold," the Dark Lord warned. "That beast has goaded your foolish pride. You forget to whom you are bound."

"I forget very little, Dark Lord, and forgive even less." She stiffened as the Dark Mark seared her left arm.

"_Don't make me regret saving you from the desires of Xhal Thos_," the Dark Lord hissed menacingly in Parseltongue.

The black unicorn understood the Dark Lord's words through Arcana and reared violently, tossing his head and striking the air with his fore hooves. Arcana gripped his flanks tightly with her knees, remaining mounted with ease.

_Death_ was the only thing the black unicorn knew. _Death for him_.

The Death Eaters fell back and drew their wands as the black unicorn spread his wings and_shrieked_. One wizard screamed and crumpled to the ground, hands pressed over his ears. Others doubled over in agony or dropped their wands from boneless fingers. Magic crackled around the unicorn, and Arcana fought to rein in his madness.

The black unicorn's desire to s_trike and kill, strike and kill_ echoed through her head, threatening to become her own mantra. The Dark Lord warily stepped backwards with his wand in hand, and the black unicorn lunged forward, intent on running him through.

_No!_ Arcana screamed in her thoughts. She knew the curse on the Dark Lord's lips. The magic was poised to be cast. _Yield_! Arcana mentally commanded, forcing her will onto the black unicorn.

Cloven hooves dug deep furrows into the earth, and he whinnied in dismay, coming to a halt with his sharp horn inches from the Dark Lord's extended wand. The breath burned in Arcana's lungs from the effort of pure will.

The Death Eaters recovered and trained their wands on Arcana, only waiting for the Dark Lord's signal to attack. She coaxed the black unicorn to back away, but the Dark Lord did not lower his wand. The beast pawed the ground and shook his head, sending images and furious emotions to Arcana.

_Why? Kill him now. Why stop? Kill him!_ The black unicorn thrashed against Arcana's will.

_Hold. Please just hold. Not now. It would be your death as well, and thus mine. Just hold_. The black unicorn neighed in distress, his eyes rolling in their sockets, but he obeyed.

"You would have traded my life for slavery to that demonic abomination, Dark Lord?" Arcana whispered so only the he could hear. His anger flashed, tinging her vision a bloody red, and she bared her sharp teeth. "I think not."

White-hot iron stabbed through Arcana's left arm, and her breath caught in her throat. The black unicorn shifted beneath her and stamped his hooves, pushing against her will, thirsting for the wizard's blood. The forest wrapped around Arcana, drawing away the pain, and the Dark Mark quieted. Wet blood oozed down her arm under her glove.

"Any power you pretend to have over me is naught but illusion, no matter the brand on my arm," she snapped. The magic of the land thrummed menacingly in agreement, but the Dark Lord seemed not to notice. The north wind whipped through the clearing, and a collective shudder went around the circle of Death Eaters.

"When I next summon you, hunter, we'll learn if my illusions can make you scream."

An image of carnage overlaid Arcana's vision, but she blinked it away, promising the unicorn that his fury would be sated one day. The Dark Lord waved sharply towards the circle of Death Eaters, signaling them to stand down. Wands were lowered, but none ventured closer.

"Your delivery is due, hunter." The Dark Lord's wand was still aimed at Arcana's heart, ready to strike down rider and mount at the first sign of aggression.

Arcana untied a pouch from her belt and ran one clawed finger over the runes burnt into the leather to cancel the wards she had set. The black unicorn reluctantly turned and sidled up to the Dark Lord, snorting and warily watching the wizard with one eye. Arcana placed the pouch in the Dark Lord's outstretched hand. Skeletal fingers closed over the leather, making the crystal phials within clink. A cruel smile split his face.

The Dark Lord slipped the pouch into his robes and then caught Arcana with a piercing glare. The world faded to black, save for those crimson eyes.

"Solstice has passed, and I will not tolerate this rebellious behavior again, hunter." A push of Arcana's will brought back the forest and the Death Eaters to her perception.

"If that is so," Arcana said softly, directing the black unicorn to back away, "never summon me again while I hunt, Dark Lord."

The black unicorn turned at Arcana's touch and galloped across the frozen ground. At her cry, he spread his wings and took to the air, leaving the Death Eaters alone with their master.

* * *

The black unicorn appeared in midair at the edge of the wards around Slytherin's Valley as the sun was cresting the horizon. Stretching over the rocky hills, the frosty grass sparkled like crystal shards. Arcana pulled her hat lower over her eyes and pushed her smoked glasses further up the bridge of her nose, squinting at the sudden change of light. The air was cold enough to make her nose burn as she breathed, but it was a good pain. There was freedom in it. 

Arcana snarled when her Dark Mark seared, demanding immediate reply. The black unicorn banked, swooping down across the valley, diving through the morning mist. Grey wisps tore back from great leathery wings and hooves skimmed the treetops. The black fortress loomed in the distance, crouched up against the high cliff where the valley was deepest. Most of it was unseen as the fortress extended deep underground, the corridors winding back into the cliff. Old magic held back the forest from the Dark Lord's abode, the trees standing as if pressed against an invisible wall around the small meadow that surrounded the towering structure. At the edge of the meadow a herd of thestrals fled to the cover of the trees as the black unicorn sailed overhead. He landed at the main entrance, and Arcana dismounted, stroking the black unicorn's neck before climbing up the stairs to the ancient oak doors.

The snakes carved into the wood hissed and snapped at Arcana as she drew near, but the doors opened all the same, shutting behind her with a loud bang as soon as she was inside. Arcana thought of death, and the fortress knew it. The Dark Lord could have killed her last night, and for that he had died a hundred deaths in her thoughts since their meeting – even hours later she could not stop the killing in her mind. If she had been taking a soul when he had summoned her . . . Arcana shuddered, unable to finish the thought.

She marched through the corridors, heedless of the few Death Eaters awake at that early hour. The orange light of the magical oil lamps lining the corridors morphed her shadow into monstrous beasts that prowled along the walls at her side. Booted heels clacked sharply on the stone floor, burning anger stealing her usual eerie silence. Arcana hesitated a brief moment at the door behind which the Dark Lord waited, recalling the last time he had tortured her there. It had taken weeks to recover. He did not have weeks to spare now, or so she hoped.

The door opened without prompting, and Arcana stepped inside. He never waited for her to knock any longer. The spartan room was dark, as expected, lit only by a roaring fire in the hearth, which was fueled by real wood for once: fresh pine to purify old magical residues. The Dark Lord stood before the fire with his back to Arcana, silhouetted by the flickering orange light.

"Should I bother to hear your excuses, hunter, or simply move on directly to your punishment?" the Dark Lord hissed.

"My lord." The words felt foul on Arcana's lips. "I would hear _your_ excuses – why you dared call me from the hunt." She snarled. The black unicorn's magic swarmed out from where she had tried to hold it still within her mind. Fury burned black, and Arcana's hand went to her wand.

The Dark Lord whirled around, heavy robes swirling about his ankles.

"_Crucio_."

Arcana crumpled to the floor and screamed in anger as much as pain. The Dark Lord lifted the curse, and Arcana gasped for air, curling onto her side as he began to slowly circle around her, boot heels clacking on the stone floor. Fire smoldered in her veins even as her hands shook from the curse.

"Excuses? Hunter, when you have been gone for days, what am I to think?"

"This is the first sunrise I've seen since I set out, my lord," Arcana snapped, ignoring the aches that were skipping through muscle and bone.

"Is that so?"

The Dark Lord crouched down and traced his tip of his wand along Arcana's cheek. She stiffened, shoving down her need to strike at him and flee. The Dark Lord's other hand slipped under the back of her head, and red eyes became the focus of Arcana's world. Red-black magic swirled around him like a stormy sea. He yanked her head back by her hair, and the swirling magic struck like a blade, but the Dark Lord's Legilimency still found no purchase in her mind. She was smoke and shadow.

"If you don't show me the truth, my fae, I must assume you lie to your lord."

Arcana sneered, but let the Dark Lord see that she had spoken truthfully. It was just easier that way. The hand in her hair let go, and the Dark Lord rose smoothly. Arcana rolled to her knees and struggled to stand, her limbs still twitching from the curse.

"I did not give you leave to stand, hunter."

"You have no—"

"_Sanguinus Gelidus_," the Dark Lord cast sharply.

The Blood Chilling Curse struck like a ball of ice thrust into her chest, freezing her from the inside out, and Arcana collapsed. Ice pulsed through her veins, muscles seized, hands went numb, and still the curse held strong. She gasped for air with lungs that refused to expand, and when her vision began to dim, terror hit. Perhaps he meant to kill her this time. She tried to scream, but her voice failed. Then it stopped. Arcana lay very still, splayed on her back, as the magic faded, her heart clenching as it tried to pump her chilled blood. Her body shivered involuntarily and each breath came out foggy, despite the warmth of the room.

"I do hope your temper has cooled for now, my fae. I would hate to have to teach you obedience all over again."

Arcana stared up at the high ceiling. The black unicorn's fury was roiling inside, struggling against her will to be unleashed, and her own hatred seethed like a thing alive. A will of steel and a whisper of High magic silenced the screaming emotions, at least temporarily. Retribution and revenge would come, but if she didn't play her role now she would lose everything.

"Yes, that seems to have done the trick," the Dark Lord said, satisfied with his work. "Do try harder to cleanse the black unicorn's Wildness before answering my summons."

Arcana managed to turn her head enough to glare up at the Dark Lord. Pain shot down her neck.

"Oh, yes, I did insist on promptness this morning, but I was quite merciful in return." Arcana's Dark Mark hummed under her skin. "I understand very well that you are subject to the whims of Wild magic. Had you been in your right mind last night I would be revoking your access to the magic of my lands now," the Dark Lord hissed, "which I can only imagine would be most unpleasant to endure." A new cold settled in Arcana's stomach that had nothing to do with the curse. "Yes, I think it would be."

Some of the black unicorn's ire slipped from Arcana's mind, leaving a gaping emptiness in its place through which traitorous fear wafted. She had nearly forgotten fear when riding. A muscle in her left leg spasmed, and she caught her breath until it stopped. The Dark Lord's eyes followed her reactions, his magic a heavy red-black cloak held just out of Arcana's reach. It looked warm.

Truthfully, Arcana was surprised that the Dark Lord had not already severed her magical access to his lands. He had only granted it so she could cast the wards for the demon summoning. She had grown used to that soft hum around her, reaching down deep under her feet. It now answered her call with little trepidation, and she pulled on it often enough that whispers of its magic settled into her as soon as she stepped into the valley. Abruptly sealing off her access would be like ripping away a piece of her being, though hopefully not permanently damaging.

"Did that beast keep to the night to hide the passage of time from you, my fae? Or did you ignore it willfully?" Arcana concentrated on breathing deeply as a muscle in her back started to spasm. The Dark Lord stepped closer until the hem of his robes brushed against Arcana's gloved fingers. "I would hear your explanation now, my fae."

"Wild magic has . . . strange effects on time," she croaked, the muscles and tendons around her jaw pulling tight. "It cares nothing . . . between one night and . . . a few nights."

"You dare mock me with your immortality?" the Dark Lord snapped.

"Truth . . . nothing more," Arcana insisted, purposefully meeting his piercing gaze. A hint of black amusement colored his magic, and his head tilted to the side.

"And what do you know of truth?"

So it was back to philosophy. At least that tended to hurt less than curses.

"Magic is truth, my lord."

"Magic blinds you to the truth, my fae," the Dark Lord scoffed. Knowing he would not like her reply, Arcana stayed silent and tried to keep her face free of contempt. She obviously failed at the latter since a tight smile turned up the corners of the Dark Lord's mouth.

"Now, be still." He waved his wand and levitated Arcana toward the hearth. She groaned as her body shifted. "We can't have you catching cold now, can we? Especially since your good manners have made a miraculous return."

The spell set Arcana down very close to the fire. She cringed as her body settled into the hard floor.

"No, my lord," Arcana managed to say emotionlessly. She flexed her fingers slightly and then went still again until another shiver wracked her body. The stone floor was warm under her cheek, and she closed her eyes, waiting for the penetrating chill to ease. The Dark Lord stepped away, and there was silence except for the crackling fire.

It seemed that was to be the end of her punishment. Arcana took a deep breath, relieved. The movement deepened the ache in her chest, and she clenched her jaw to stave off a coughing fit. She was fortunate that the Dark Lord was in such a good mood. Maybe he had sated his sadistic tendencies on his Death Eaters, or perhaps he had found another spy. Either way, it was no matter. One less human in this world was not a terrible thing, especially if it kept the Dark Lord's wand pointed away from her.

"I trust you will restrain that beast of yours in the future, my fae," the Dark Lord said, pulling Arcana from her thoughts. "If you don't, I will kill it, and that would be a pity as your hunts have been far more productive since it appeared out of the mists."

"You may be the one to die if you confront him, my lord," Arcana said quietly. The Dark Lord chuckled and sat down in his chair, extending his long legs so his boots rested near her head.

"Ah, but we both know you will not risk its life on that fleeting chance, so I suggest you keep that beast away from your lord."

Arcana listened to the crackling fire and ignored the Dark Lord's barb, which only stung because of the truth in it. The black unicorn's influence, which always dulled the strain of soul hunting, was seeping away, leaving her cold, miserable, and vaguely ill. At least the Dark Lord had kept his temper this time. The after-effects of both curses should fade after a few hours sleep – one benefit of being fae.

"The sky will be clear tonight, my fae. I expect you on the East Tower two hours after sunset to practice Stargazing."

If Arcana'd had any energy left, she would have hurled a hex his way despite the consequences. Instead she just sighed, urging the fire to warm her faster so she could slink away and crawl into her soft bed. The brand on her arm burned slightly.

"As you wish, my lord."

* * *

Shelly's chipper face was not the first thing Arcana had wanted to see upon waking. She snarled, pulling the covers over her head, rolling over and kicking Shelly off of the bed in one fluid movement. 

"Lady Arcana's breakfast will get cold," Shelly admonished from the floor before scampering out of the bedroom, undeterred by Arcana's temper.

A night of fruitless Stargazing and fitful sleep had left Arcana in a foul mood. The Blood Chilling Curse hadn't faded as fast as she'd expected, and only now was she feeling warm again. Fire sprang up in the bedroom hearth, quickly banishing the chill. Arcana stuck a leg out from under the blankets and, judging it warm enough, crawled out of bed. Shelly was at her side in a flash to wrap her up in a heavy robe and tuck her feet into warm slippers. Arcana's stomach rumbled, and Shelly prodded her toward breakfast.

Well-fed and awake, Arcana rummaged through the trunk by her wardrobe and pulled out a bag of supplies. She closed her eyes and looked outside, sensing that another cold January day was dawning. Just then, the wind wailed through the fortress's ancient ventilation system, as if to mock her for wanting leave the warmth. Ignoring its taunts, Arcana opened the wardrobe and grabbed heavy black robes and a cloak.

"Lady is going out?" Shelly asked nervously.

"Yes, a long walk will do me good," Arcana said, reaching for her graphorn-hide vest. She shrugged it on, and knelt so Shelly could fasten it, something the house-elf had commandeered as her duty.

"Lady is not out to make the Master angry, is she?"

"I'd rather not try his temper now," Arcana said smoothly. It was easier to simply avoid the truth rather than lie. House-elves saw through lies better than humans.

"Shelly will be waiting for Lady Arcana to return. She'll need to warm up for sure." The house-elf bobbed up and down, then Disapparated with a pop.

The wind howled again, teasing a few white wisps to dangle in Arcana's face. She stood with a sigh and charmed them back again. Moments like this made her feel almost human, or at least what she supposed it was like to be human. A crook of Arcana's finger shrunk the bag of supplies and summoned it into her hand. It provide a good cover should the Dark Lord interrogate Shelly about Arcana's absence.

Three precious vials sat next to a bottle of dragon's blood in Arcana's potions laboratory. Each contained a small amount of the Dark Lord's dried blood – blood he had carelessly left on Arcana's hands after the demon summoning the night of the Winter Solstice. Each day since she had feared the burn of her Dark Mark, imagining his demands to see her memories. Two vials vanished into a pocket in her robes.

Hiking through Slytherin's Valley was a chore. The last thing Arcana wanted was to linger on the Dark Lord's lands while carrying his blood, but if he caught wind of her haste, the Cruciatus Curse would be the least of her worries. At the edge of the anti-Apparition wards Arcana's Dark Mark hummed softly. She could tell that the Dark Lord hadn't slept, likely occupied by his war or one of his magical obsessions. The brand quieted, and Arcana sighed, her hand going to the pocket that held the vials of blood.

Arcana's cottage, hidden under a barrow in an unplottable part of the Caledonian forest, was unchanged since her last visit. She had spent many years during her exile moping about the cozy rooms and wandering the surrounding woods while the seasons had flown by in an empty whirl. She had sat for days on end, staring at nothing and everything when the fury of her quest for vengeance had finally died. Generations of mortal lives had come and gone, and their suffering had ceased to dull the ache of loss.

In those early days of exile the black unicorn had stayed nearby. Rage had driven Arcana to expend her magical reserves at an alarming rate, and he would ferry her back to the Realms every few years to stave off unnatural death. It had taken her several hundred years to learn how to live in the magically barren mortal world. Restraint, precision, and subtlety had been forced into each breath, allowing her to stretch the High magic that used to last a year into a century's worth. She sometimes wondered what her old teacher would have thought of her success, but thinking about him hurt. It was best not to dwell on it.

She went through the motions of restocking her magically stabilized pantry and cupboard of simple potions, unable to tear her mind from the past. At least in the Dark Lord's fortress there were no constant reminders of the pain save one, but that she kept hidden in a drawer. Reaching back to check a dusty potion bottle, her hand brushed across an old sheet of parchment. With a sinking feeling, she pulled it out.

The wax seal of the Dark Mark was as ugly as it had been the day it had arrived by owl. She should have burned it then, but no. She had been a fool.

ooo ooo ooo ooo

Damp air seeped through the wooden slats of a shack deep within an unremarkable forest. A magical, smokeless fire burned in one corner, casting just enough light for Arcana to read the yellowed pages of an old spellbook. Rain pattered against the mossy roof, but did not drip through thanks to the Waterproofing Charm she had cast yesterday morning after being rudely awakened by several drops of dirty water plunking onto her face. While not Arcana's idea of a proper abode, it served its purpose.

A week ago she had received an intriguing correspondence from her contact in Knockturn Alley. Jeriol Ironcraft, the owner of Ironcraft Antiquaries and the purveyor of Arcana's more questionable magical supplies, had owled her a hastily-written warning that one Lucius Malfoy had been poking around Knockturn Alley with a sample of Arcana's work. She had shrugged it off without worry since no one, magical or Muggle, could find her when she did not want to be found, and Arcana had no interest in doing business with any Malfoy since that incident in the eighteenth century.

A second letter from Jeriol had arrived the day after, and Arcana'd had to read it three times before fully digesting the scrawled words. Apparently Malfoy had not been inquiring about the crystal phial containing a human soul on his own behalf. It was the Dark Lord Voldemort that was interested, or "You-Know-Who," as Jeriol had put it. Voldemort had already deduced that the soul had been taken recently, meaning that the "wizard" responsible was likely still alive. But that wasn't all. He wanted more.

After much thought, Arcana had replied, telling Jeriol that this "Dark Lord" might owl her through the proper channels. It would be risky to associate with such a powerful wizard, but she had grown bored these last couple decades. Little interesting work had come her way since Grindelwald's defeat, and she hadn't felt like traveling much, instead spending year after dull, bitter year pacing her old haunts around Britain. Time crept forward steadily in an unnatural fashion, reminding Arcana that in the mortal world her magic was not infinite, nor was her life. The black unicorn, her old friend, would come back, he had to come back, to take her home. It had been so long since she last rode.

The sensations came back in a rush – the fury of black wings beating at her sides and the Dark, primeval magic that harkened to the chaos before time. Arcana blinked, and the words of the forgotten spellbook reappeared before her eyes, shimmering with their own faint power. There was still time for a bit of excitement before her powers waned, and this Voldemort would provide that in spades if he was even half what the rumors claimed. There would be gold too, she mused, picturing her nearly empty Gringotts vault in her mind. Yes, this venture had potential.

Arcana did admit to some curiosity regarding this "Lord" Voldemort. By all reports, he was incredibly powerful and had pushed the boundaries of Dark magic to new limits. The disappearances, torture, and killings attributed to him and his followers were of little concern. She had survived unscathed the reigns of more violent Dark wizards, even after taunting them from the shadows with offers of human souls and ancient secrets.

In addition to his magical gifts, this Lord Voldemort was also talented at manipulation – something Arcana appreciated, being unfortunately well versed in the politics of the fae realms. This skill had already secured him an infamous place in wizarding history, and the way things were looking now, he might actually topple the Ministry of Magic. Arcana doubted he would get further than that, but it was too early to tell, and it didn't really matter in the end. Things always changed in the mortal world, and she remained the same.

Night fell as rain pounded against the roof, and Arcana continued her vigil. She gave up reading and closed her eyes to better concentrate on the shifting magical patterns of the forest. Just as she was drifting off to sleep there was a sharp tapping at the window. She jerked open the cracked window with a wandless spell, and a very wet owl flew inside, spraying water droplets everywhere. Arcana waved at the window, and it flew shut, shaking a couple nails loose from the rotted wall. The owl perched on the grimy table next to the spellbook and extended its leg toward her, seeming very eager to dispose of its burden. She untied the thick letter and rummaged through her robes for a bag of owl treats, as the bird looked ready to peck her hands if she did not produce food. Arcana tossed a couple treats across the room, and the owl flew to them after shooting her a nasty look. Her makeshift bed creaked as she sat down to examine the letter.

The envelope was free of magic, and Arcana recognized Jeriol's writing and nondescript seal. He had enclosed a short note along with another envelope that bore unfamiliar writing and was sealed with what had become known as the Dark Mark. The short note was neither addressed nor signed.

_Apparently Lucius Malfoy tried (and failed) to follow He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's letter. If this is what I suspect, I will be glad to supply you with the necessary components. Watch out for yourself._

Arcana chuckled at the way Jeriol incriminated Malfoy but left his own name off. That wizard had a good sense of humor and was ever the businessman, already counting the Galleons before they left her clawed hands.

Lord Voldemort's letter also appeared free of magic after Arcana's thorough investigation, which surprised her slightly as she had expected him to weave some underhanded spellwork into the parchment. Nothing untoward occurred when she broke the seal, and Arcana cautiously unfolded the letter, ignoring the screeching post owl. She tossed the bird a couple more treats, and it went quiet.

_Soul Hunter,_

_In this current atmosphere of paranoia, I am surprised that such a powerful Dark wizard as yourself has remained hidden to me when so many others have flocked to my side. You need not secret yourself away any longer._

_For years I have sought someone with your unique skills but have been woefully disappointed with the tattered soul material available on the Black market — that is until a servant of mine chanced to show me a sample of your work. I admit to being impressed and find myself eager to secure a supply of pure human souls, the likes of which I have never seen in all of my travels._

_I can offer you more than any other wizard alive, and I will of course reward your efforts handsomely. My power and following both grow daily, and when I rule the wizarding world, you will have a place of honor at my side._

_We must meet in person to discuss the terms of your employment. As you obviously value your privacy highly, I allow you to choose the location and time for our first meeting. Letters addressed to the Dark Lord Voldemort will find their way to me unless they are tampered with magically._

_I await your reply,_

_Lord Voldemort_

The tone of the letter was surprisingly polite for the most feared Dark wizard in centuries, though he clearly expected to gain her services with little fuss. Arcana did not doubt he could afford her high rates, but her instincts prickled at his words, warning her of the danger of doing business with this self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort. While she had been reclusive lately, she still listened and read, and she knew very well the terror that he had unleashed upon magical Britain. Several years ago he had dropped the mask of a political opponent to reveal himself as a fully-fledged Dark Lord, capable and willing to use the Darkest magic to achieve his will.

Arcana spent the next day mulling over her decision to the tune of pouring rain and screeching owl, but despite her careful deliberation, the little spark of excitement burning in her chest and told her that the choice had already been made. She would meet this Dark Lord Voldemort on her terms and sate her curiosity. No wizard had bested her in eight centuries, and this Lord Voldemort would fare no better.

ooo ooo ooo ooo

Yes, she should have just burned the letter. Arcana stared at the parchment for several minutes, and then angrily tossed it back in the cupboard. She still couldn't bring herself to do it.

Arcana shut the cupboard door and withdrew one vial of dried blood from her pocket. Driven by paranoia, she stashed it as far from the cursed letter as possible, sticking it into an old boot in the wardrobe full of clothing she used while glamoured.

* * *

Waves crashed against the cliffs of a barren island somewhere west of Azkaban with all the force of winter's fury. Arcana stood at the cliff's edge, glaring at the black sea with her arms crossed over her chest, her cloak whipping about in the wind and rain. The dark day had fallen into night some hours ago, but neither that nor the rising storm had drawn her out of her thoughts. 

Arcana blinked the raindrops from her eyes and tightened her grip on her elbows. The last vial containing the Dark Lord's dried blood was now safely hidden on the island. She would not be able to retrieve it rapidly, but it would safe since no humans had walked this ground since her banishment. Arcana had killed the last trespassers, and then thrown their remains off the cliff to the deep – a punishment far too merciful for their crime.

This island was close enough to the fae realms that the tiny spark of the demon Xhal Thos remaining in her head wriggled with excitement, and the land under her feet drew away from the offending presence. Over the hill stood a stone circle, a Faerie Door as the druids had called it. A small amount of High magic leaked through from the fae realms, and when enough accumulated Arcana came to drink and to remember.

Arcana withdrew one of her many secrets from a hidden pocket in her robes and tangled the heavy silver chain around her gloved fingers. The edges of the pendant bit into her palm, and she closed her fist over it, gently awakening the dormant power within. It was perhaps a useless habit to continue imbuing the old talisman with magic, but she could not bring herself to break the tradition of remembrance. Arcana would not allow history to repeat itself, though the chance she would ever take another apprentice was naught but a lost thought in the gale.

* * *

**Next:** "Of Mysteries and Misfortune." Demon-troubled sleep is the last thing Arcana is worrying about when a simple errand turns nasty. 

Thanks for reading everyone. Let me know what you thought. :)

If you haven't gotten enough Methylethyldeth yet, she also resides on livejournal, where she posts regularly on a variety of topics. She doesn't bite visitors . . . often.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Original elements (characters, locations, plot, etc.) are property of Methylethyldeth.

**Chapter Summary: **Dreams are warped into hellish nightmares, and a simple errand puts Arcana in great danger.

**Author Notes:** Methyl has escaped the pit of flesh-eating slugs unharmed once again! Thanks to the beta astraia ourania for pointing out the bits that needed fixing. Without her there'd be several "Huh? What was that? Maybe Methyl has been drinking too much firewhisky" moments in this chapter. Now Methyl has no excuses to avoid editing chapter three.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Illusions of Choice**

Chapter 2: Of Mysteries and Misfortune

The thick morning mist clung to everything it touched, leaving silver dewdrops in its wake. Mossy branches stretched up into the swirling grey, their green leaves shivering, though there was no wind. Down at their roots, dappled light danced on dewy ferns and glinted off of Arcana's white hair. High magic sank into her body with each step, trickling, flowing, surging through streams that had grown parched during her exile in the mortal world.

Stiff boots and heavy robes weighed her down, binding her to some role she had never wanted. She remembered feeling the emerald moss soft under her feet – that was how it was supposed to be. It had been long ago, or maybe just yesterday. She couldn't recall just now, but that didn't matter.

Arcana reached up and tore through thick fabric, leather, and metal as if it had no substance. The discarded clothing vanished. She threw her head back and arched her back, singing silently to the sky. Somewhere beyond the mist the sun was shining, and she could almost hear its silvery whispers. The green earth rumbled contentedly, drawing Arcana back down, and she ran just to feel the wind caress her skin. She leapt off of a rocky ledge, her long braids flying behind, and landed softly on hands and feet. This place she remembered, yes, but was it here before? No matter. Places did not always stay put, and that was the way of things.

The waterfall sang its way into the pool, just as it always had, and Arcana smiled. Silver willow trees stood nearby, like old friends, their branches swaying in the still air, watching over the shimmering flowers that crowded in their shadows. There were no birds in the trees though, and that was odd. There were no fish in the pool, no faerie under the rocks, no singing on the wind. There was no wind. There was only silence.

Arcana shivered, suddenly cold. She crouched at the edge of the pool and wrapped her arms around her knees. This place was lonely now, somehow broken and wrong. Tears burned in Arcana's eyes, and she pressed her cheek to the mossy ground, trying to force her memories to live once more.

A rough hand seized her ankle, and the stench of brimstone cut through the morning mist.

"No!" Arcana screamed, not needing to turn around to know who was there. She kicked and thrashed, but the demon Xhal Thos just began dragging her away.

_Fighting no longer amuses me. Be still, little fae! _ The demon's voice pounded in Arcana's ears and sliced through her mind.

She screamed and dug her claws into the soft earth, but it gave way. The mossy ground blurred into red, barren rock, and all evidence of her green world was banished, as if it had only been a dream.

A dream, another dream . . . it was back in her dreams!

Xhal Thos dragged Arcana over sharp rocks by her ankle, her bones grinding together with each step the demon took. She screamed out for aid, screamed to wake up, screamed curses and obscenities in a dozen languages. Blood stained her hands from scrabbling at the ground and her mouth tasted of dust. She kicked at the demon, and Xhal Thos jerked her ankle. Something cracked, and Arcana screamed again.

_I should have known that wouldn't silence you._

"Please, anyone! Please, help!" Arcana shrieked, uncaring of which language had crossed her lips. Xhal Thos laughed.

_Finally, I cracked that pride. It took long enough._

"My lord!" Arcana screamed to the red sky. He had promised to protect her. Where was he now?

Xhal Thos growled, and Arcana grabbed her Dark Mark with her right hand, begging for help. The demon shook Arcana by the ankle.

_Silence, fae!_

Searing fire stabbed through Arcana's brand, and Xhal Thos raged, yanking her ankle until her knee broke with a sickening crack. She screamed.

The world blurred, turning dark and tangled. Arcana fought the bonds that held her fast, and then suddenly fell, landing hard on her back. The ground – no floor – was cold, but soft like a rug. Arcana's raw fingers ran over the fibers, and the room flashed into focus. She weakly tugged at the bedsheets that wound around her body and then let her head fall to the floor. She laughed, but it was not a merry sound.

Arcana groaned and rolled onto her side, shaking with the dregs of fear, almost expecting Xhal Thos to be glaring down at her with a wide grin on its wretched face. Arcana looked up, and found the Dark Lord glowering at her, arms crossed over his chest.

"You said it had stopped, Arcana," the Dark Lord hissed. "I cannot be bothered to break these demon illusions at all hours of the day and night."

Arcana sat up and drew the blood-smeared sheets around her body. She must have torn off her nightclothes while dreaming. Blood oozed from deep gashes in the palms of her hands, just like it had in the dream, and her ankle hurt. Suddenly, she needed to stand, at least to get up upon the bed, but the weight of the Dark Lord's his eyes held her down. He scowled.

Xhal Thos had been angry too. So very angry.

Arcana's Dark Mark warmed, and she looked up.

"It had stopped, my lord, mostly," Arcana said, looking away from him quickly. She tucked the sheets under her arms and lay her shaking hands in her lap. The wounds were slow to close.

"Mostly?" he asked, irritated.

"It was only an echo of what it had been, and surfaced rarely, and I slept several times without trouble, my lord." Arcana took a deep breath and reached down into the magic of the land. A veneer of calm slid over the tattered remains of terror. "Without your potion, my lord."

The Dark Lord raised his hand. Arcana closed her mouth, bowed her head, and shifted to a more comfortable position, accidentally pulling the sheets off of her ankle. There were bruises, and Xhal Thos' fingers were clear amid the discoloration. Arcana suddenly felt ill and stretched deeper into the land. Her vision swam with magic. She had thought that the worst of the demon's filth had been purged, but it was still close. Far too close.

The Dark Lord crouched down and grasped Arcana's calf, pulling her leg straight. She winced at the sharp pain that shot up from ankle to knee. His hand was cold. Arcana's fingers twitched with the instinctive urge to tear it to shreds. The Dark Lord tapped his wand on Arcana's ankle, his expression darkening. There was something he was not telling her. She could tell.

"Is this consistent with your dream?" His wand vanished into his black robes.

"Yes, my lord, but it was worse then."

"And these are the first physical effects?" The Dark Lord's eyes locked onto Arcana's, and the world was awash in a haze of his red-black magic.

"Yes, my lord."

The Dark Lord's rage burned black, but it was not directed at Arcana. Her Dark Mark hummed softly as his magic ghosted along their link, searching for further damage to . . . his property. The shock of the nightmare numbed her anger, but she still keenly felt the ache of shame.

"Can you set the bones?" The Dark Lord's fingers grazed the bruises on Arcana's ankle. Wisps of his magic sank into her flesh, and she shivered.

"Yes, my lord," Arcana said. "It would be easier if Shelly could bring my potion."

"You already have a potion brewed for mending bone?" the Dark Lord asked sharply. Arcana bit back the bitter laugh dancing in her throat.

"Of course, my lord. You know I react badly to most readily available potions, Skelegrow derivatives included, and I've learned to be prepared." The Dark Lord's magic flashed red with anger, but he only nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Continue searing the bite wound at dawn. Your lord will provide you with sleeping potion for another week."

"Thank you, my lord." Arcana bowed her head.

"And you will inform me if this echo persists at that time."

"As you wish, my lord."

The Dark Lord stood and snapped his fingers. Shelly appeared, flustered and with a wooden spoon still in her hand. She bowed low to the Dark Lord, and then saw Arcana.

"My . . . oh hunter Arcana!" Shelly caught herself and stared forlornly at Arcana, the muscles of her jaw working. She thought that the Dark Lord had done this, Arcana realized. "Oh, Shelly will fix everything." Shelly gripped the spoon tightly with both hands. "That is what Master wishes?"

"Yes," the Dark Lord hissed. Shelly bowed, banishing the spoon, unceremoniously plopped down on the floor next to Arcana's outstretched foot and gently ran her hands over the bruised ankle.

"I will leave you in good hands then, my fae," the Dark Lord said before Disapparating. Arcana scowled at the place where he had stood, cringing when the bones in her ankle shifted under Shelly's hands.

"Shelly will fix Lady Arcana, and then get her potions, and then draw a bath. Yes, a bath will be good, and then Shelly can clean things up and . . ."

The house-elf's chatter ran over Arcana's ears, and she concentrated on being glad that the dream had only been a dream. Unfortunately that did not make her ankle hurt any less.

* * *

Sharp pain shot up Arcana's leg, and the belt slipped out of her hand, falling to the floor with a dull thud. Her broken ankle had kept her off her feet for two days, the cracked bones not responding well to either her potions or Shelly's magic. Arcana shifted her weight to her good foot and summoned the belt with a crook of her finger. She wrapped it around her waist and pulled the leather through the buckle with deft fingers. A frown crept onto her face. The sun was already up, and she could not dally.

"Lady Arcana should be resting," Shelly admonished Arcana. The house-elf was perched precariously on a haphazard pile of blankets at the end of Arcana's bed, hands planted firmly on her hips.

"Shelly, I will rest. After I return."

"The Master wouldn't want Lady running about—"

"And by the time you can tell him, I'll have gone."

Shelly sighed and wrung her hands.

The Dark Lord had left the fortress last night and had yet to return. Since the demon summoning, the Dark Lord's war had occupied most of his time, and he had mostly left Arcana to her own devices. She could probably visit Jeriol and be back before he noticed her absence. The freedom was refreshing after the last few months of having the Dark Lord hovering over her shoulder, but now Arcana kept catching herself anticipating his next order or tracing the brand on her left arm as she stared into the fire.

"I'm out of supplies, Shelly, and the Dark Lord would be displeased if my next hunt was delayed," Arcana explained. Shelly fidgeted uncomfortably, playing with the collar of her uniform. Jeriol should also have red maiden rose hips in stock, which Arcana needed to brew a new batch of her blood replenishing potion. At least those were her official reasons for the visit.

Arcana tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and pulled on her cloak, taking time to adjust her gloves rather than looking Shelly in the eye. It was easier to hide from house-elf intuition if one avoided eye contact, and if Shelly suspected anything, the Dark Lord would learn of it. In a fit of paranoia he might recall the blood he had left on Arcana's hands. The results of that would be worse than anything that could happen if she asked Jeriol about blood magic. She hated trusting him in such a delicate matter, but she had no one else to turn to, which just made it worse.

"Let Shelly look at it once more, Lady." The house-elf gazed up at Arcana, pleading with her large, round eyes.

"You checked my ankle not ten minutes ago, Shelly," Arcana snapped, tearing her thoughts away from blood magic and death. "It'll do for now." The bones were stabilized and healing, albeit more slowly than desired. "I'll return shortly, Shelly."

"Be careful, Lady."

Arcana managed a small smile and nodded to Shelly before leaving, refusing to let the house-elf's worry poison her resolve.

Knockturn Alley was dark, damp, and bitterly cold. Arcana slipped out of the shadows and onto the nearly empty street, causing ugly rats to skitter away from her boots. The leering wizard in his voodoo booth looked up from the entrails of a freshly slaughtered chicken, and a gaggle of hags, huddling around fire, muttered curses and followed Arcana with hooded eyes. She gripped her wand – her fae-crafted wand – just in case.

Turning a corner, Arcana slipped on a patch of dirty ice and a spike of pain drove through her right ankle. She tossed lanky black hair out of her sallow, glamoured face and tugged the hood of her cloak forward, silently cursing all demons and Dark Lords. A door creaked open, and an emaciated vampire peered out and bared her long fangs. Arcana's hand tightened on her wand, and the vampire sniffed the air, her eyes going black. The sun brightened, and the vampire flinched, darting back to safety, and let out a hideous cry of hunger. Arcana quickly walked past before the clouds thickened again.

Much to Arcana's disgust, the heavily warded door of Ironcraft Antiquaries was locked, but she sensed both Jeriol and his apprentice inside. Arcana banged on the door with her fist, careful to avoid the strips of tainted iron that bound the heavy oak. Her gloves would protect her skin, but the metal still felt wrong.

"We're closed," Darian's muffled voice called through the door.

"Is that so?" Arcana muttered, and kept pounding.

"Leave now, or I'll activate the wards and there won't be any pieces left big enough to sell!"

Arcana looked at the wards – strands of gold and green and black – woven in a deadly pattern. Jeriol's work of course. She spun around and stepped up to the dirty display window, giving it a sharp rap with her knuckles. Darian swore, and a moment later Arcana had a wand pointed at her nose through the glass. He was braver behind wards. She snarled and he flinched.

"Last chance. Go now, or you'll be raven snacks."

Arcana planted her the palms of her hands against the window, feeling the wards humming like angry bees, and partially dropped the glamour. Silvery claws scraped against glass. Darian's eyes went wide, and he swore again, stumbling back from the window. He vanished from view and yelled something toward the back of the store. A few moments later the wards faded and the door unlocked with a series of loud clicks.

"Hurry in," Jeriol said, opening the door just enough for Arcana to slip inside. Jeriol locked and re-warded the door immediately. "You could have waited for a decent hour, Lady," he grumbled, and then swooped by her to peer out the window worriedly, wand still in hand. "Go check upstairs, Darian."

Darian bounded off to the back of the shop and through the moldy curtain. Wooden stairs creaked loudly with Darian's steps. Jeriol gave Arcana a quick nod before going back to watching the street. He was still in his dressing gown with his grey hair messily pulled back in a short braid and stubble shadowing his aging face. He finally sighed and leaned against the door jam, rubbing his temples. He looked ever older.

"We're not open for good reason, Lady."

"Which is?" Arcana raised her now clawed hands in a questioning gesture.

Jeriol looked at Arcana as if her brain had just flown out of her head on fluffy pink wings.

"The attacks were all over the . . . well I suppose you don't always read the _Prophet_, but you should have known since . . ." Jeriol trailed off and shuddered.

"So that's what _he's_ been up to," Arcana muttered, a sneer twisting her mouth. Jeriol closed his eyes, but could not hide the waves of anxiety flowing off of him. "I'm not here to set the Dark Mark over your shop, old man. How about some tea? I think you need it more than me this morning."

"Of course, Lady," he said bitterly. "You must have been busy lately to be back so soon."

Before Jeriol could move, Arcana was standing in front of him, the tip of her wand under his chin. His wand fell and clattered on the floor, and he slowly raised his hands to the sides.

"I don't serve the Dark Lord. His murders are not mine. Don't think that they are."

"You have no one to worry about, do you, Lady?" Jeriol asked, sounding as tired as he looked. Arcana tilted her head to the side, prompting him to continue. "No family, no friends? None who could have died under the Dark Mark?"

"So that's what bothers you." Arcana relaxed, pleased despite herself that he did not think her a lowly assassin or that she took souls on command. Simple fear had twisted his words into accidental insults, and she could forgive that. "You all die, Jeriol. It happens. When is the only question, and there's little difference between this decade and the next to me." Arcana lowered her wand, and Jeriol shuddered. "Pick up you wand. I dislike war, if that is any consolation."

"A small one, I suppose," Jeriol muttered, bending down to retrieve his wand.

"It's all clear for now, master," Darian called from what Arcana assumed was upstairs. He came back down the creaking stairs, pushed aside the curtain and froze, one hand raised to wipe cobwebs from his hair. He reached into his waistcoat, and Arcana raised an eyebrow.

"She'd kill you before you decided what to cast, silly boy," Jeriol barked, straightening and returning his wand to its pocket. "Back to the inventory." He shooed Darian back through the curtain. "Every once in a while his Griffindor recklessness raises its head and roars." Arcana's lips twitched toward a smile.

"How about that tea now?" Arcana queried, moving away from the window and completely dropping the glamour. "And perhaps I could see today's paper."

"Of course, Lady. The cellar is better warded anyway."

Several cups of tea later Arcana settled deeper into the old chair and watched the flames dance in the hearth. Her supplies were stowed in her pockets along with several weeks of the _Daily Prophet_ that Darian had failed to throw out. Their tea had long gone cold, and yet she still sat with Jeriol in his cellar. This was her chance to ask him about blood magic, but the words kept sticking in her throat. Though Jeriol was a storekeeper, his passion had always been old magic, the more esoteric, complex, and dangerous the better, and Arcana couldn't imagine him turning a blind eye to the power of blood.

"You really didn't know about last night, did you?"

"No," Arcana snarled. "He doesn't bore me with his war often these days." Discomfort shivered off of Jeriol like leaves falling in autumn. "What do you know of blood magic, old man?" Arcana abruptly asked before he could open his mouth again.

Jeirol gaped and stumbled for words. "What about it? Why?" He looked at her intently, and Arcana hated him in that moment.

"Two questions I won't answer. Just tell me what you know, and don't dally."

Arcana swirled her cold tea, refusing to acknowledge the mixture of curiosity and pity in his eyes.

* * *

Arcana glared at Jeriol's back as they walked up the stairs. He knew something about blood magic, but not enough, nowhere near enough. He was familiar enough with her to see her disappointment, and his sincere apology had only made it worse. She'd had to bite her tongue to keep from cursing him, and as she had swallowed away the coppery taste Jeriol said that he'd sold his last rose hips the day before to a 'smelly hedgewizard with field mice stuffed in his pockets.' Her response had made him go grey and stutter another apology. Perhaps she should have listened to Shelly and stayed in bed that morning like the house-elf had wanted.

Guilt tugged at Arcana, and she stepped between Jeriol and the front door of his shop. "You know I didn't mean what I said, old man," she muttered, not meeting his eyes.

"Of course, Lady," he said stiffly. A wariness had crept back into his eyes that Arcana'd not seen for years. "Angliguard's Apothecary might have a jar or two of rose hips left. He's the best with out-of-season plants."

Arcana nodded in thanks, forcing a wan smile onto her face, and then slipped out of Ironcraft Antiquaries. She stepped around the frozen puddle that caught her earlier and shot a glare at the voodoo wizard. Diagon Alley was a place she'd prefer to avoid given the numerous Magical Law Enforcement patrols, but she wanted that new batch of blood replenishing potion brewed before she needed it.

Arcana pulled back the hood of her cloak as she crossed into Diagon Alley, hoping that it would make her look less suspicious. Anti-Apparition wards had indeed been extended to cover most of the Alley, just as Jeriol had warned. Arcana noted the unwarded spots as she walked down the sparsely populated street, concentrating on looking cold, miserable, and not suspicious. A pair of Law Enforcement wizards, bundled up in blue robes, nodded as they passed. Arcana nodded in return.

The nearest ward-free spot was fifty meters from Angliguard's Apothecary, and the next was much further. Arcana silently cursed the warding wizards for doing their job too well. The apothecary's door jingled merrily when Arcana pushed it open.

For the first time that day, luck smiled on Arcana and she handed Mister Angliguard thirty Galleons for the two small jars of rose hips, which she quickly shrunk and stuck into a pocket. He has assured her that he had placed the unbreakable charms on the jars himself, and Arcana was pleased to sense that the spells were well bonded to the glass.

"Good day, ma'am," Angliguard said with a tight smile.

"And to you," Arcana replied with a polite inclination of her head. She hurried around the cluttered shelves and out the door, which jingled cheerfully again.

Unfortunately the bells caught the attention of three Law Enforcement wizards who were loitering across the street in front of the Charming Café. The café was closed like most of the shops in Diagon Alley, and there was a despondent-looking note stuck to the inside of the door. The eldest wizard raised a small mirror and spoke into it while his shorter blonde companion hailed Arcana with a wave of his left hand. The third wizard, a reedy fellow with a shock of black hair, just looked cold. All three had their hands on holstered wands.

"Excuse me, ma'am. We have a few questions for you," the blonde wizard called.

Arcana blinked and looked around for someone else they could be talking too, playing surprised for a moment while debating the best course of action. With the Apparition point so far away she had best try to talk her way out of the situation.

"Oh, you mean me?" she said with a self-depreciating smile, crossing the Alley to the security wizards, hoping it made her glamoured appearance less severe. She had chosen the facade for Knockturn Alley after all. "Sorry, sirs. My mind's all a muddle, and today's been a mess." It was true enough after all.

"I'm Senior Officer Willard, ma'am," the eldest wizard said. "And your name?"

"Madrigal Roberts, sir." The name came easily to Arcana's lips.

"What is your business in Diagon Alley today?" Arcana gave him a confused look. "Just a routine check, ma'am. Nothing personal." Arcana would have bet gold that was a lie, even if she couldn't feel his magic shifting.

"Just restocking the cupboard, sir. It's desperately bare after my holiday up north, for Christmas and all, you know."

"Did you read the _Daily Prophet_ today, ma'am?" Willard pressed, looking grim.

"No, I just got back . . ." Arcana trailed off and made a show of looking at their faces. "Oh no. Wh-what happened? I need to get home! What if—"

"Please calm down, ma'am," the reedy wizard said gently. "Just a couple more questions, and you can go."

"Please hurry. My family must be terrified. I hadn't said I'd gotten back, and what if . . ." Arcana bit her lip, portraying the emotions she'd seen contorting Jeriol's face.

"We'll be quick, ma'am," Willard assured. "What you were doing in Knockturn Alley?" Arcana kept the dark scowl off her face. "You were seen leaving there approximately one half hour ago." He glanced behind Arcana, and she sensed the approaching reinforcements. Running was no longer an option. If things got ugly there would be corpses on the street. Behind Arcana uneven footsteps sounded _thunk, step, thunk, step, thunk_ on the cobblestones.

"An old friend of the family gives me a fair discount on local herbs I don't have time to get myself. That's all," Arcana said, the lies coming easily to her lips.

"Morning, Willard," came a gruff female voice from behind Arcana. Tension radiated off of the three wizards in front of her.

Arcana turned to see the scarred witch from Hogwarts she had assumed to be a professor, except now she was in Auror robes, standing beside Alastor Moody, with two more Law Enforcement wizards behind them. The witch glanced over Arcana, and the fae hoped her surprise did not show. Moody's electric-blue eye whirred around in its socket, looking at something behind him.

"Morning, Auror Moody, Auror Reynolds," Willard said stiffly. "Trouble?"

"Not yet. Just here checking on your trouble," Reynolds said.

"They're past Fortescue's," Moody grunted, his eye whirling back to focus on Arcana. It slipped over her glamour uneasily, as if wanting to look elsewhere. Moody squinted, pulling his scarred face into an uglier expression.

Willard and his companions stiffened. Arcana formed several spells deep within her mind, grounding her magic as best she could in the city. If the Dark Lord was going to attack Diagon Alley, she wanted out now.

"Not those Baners again," the blonde wizard groaned. "As if things aren't bad enough. Mad anti-purebloods, nosy bleeders the lot. Why can't they just keep to Bulgaria or wherever they're from?"

Arcana let her magic settle. If it was not the Dark Lord, she could still risk playing her game a bit longer.

Reynolds berated the blonde wizard for his lack of professionalism while Moody turned to Arcana.

"Show me your left arm," Moody ordered. Ice shot through Arcana's veins, but she did not let her fear show. The Dark Mark was invisible under her glamour, and no wizarding magic could crack that, not even Moody's magic eye.

"Uh, alright," Arcana said, with the confusion of someone that did not know how the Dark Lord branded his followers. She extended her left arm to Moody, who turned it palm up, pulled up her sleeve, and tugged down the elbow length leather glove. He held Arcana's wrist and poked at her forearm with his wand, casting revealing spells, his blue eye fixated on her glamoured skin. The Dark Mark was thankfully silent.

Moody let go, and Arcana fixed her glove and sleeve, molding her face into the picture of confusion and worry. He looked at Reynolds and shook his head. The witch scowled.

"What's with the long gloves, Miss Roberts?" Willard asked.

"It's cold, if you hadn't noticed," Arcana said. "I really need to get home. Are you done?" She put rubbed her palms together nervously, sensing a whirl of angry magic slinking nearer. The faint sounds a chanting mob reached her ears. The witch and wizards would hear it soon as well, and Arcana wanted to be gone by the time it got to this end of the Alley.

"I think—" Willard started.

"One more—" Reynolds' interrupted, only to be cut off by a shrill ring.

Willard raised the small mirror again. Arcana heard the muffled voice of whoever was on the other end, but could not make out the words. Moody stared at her, his magic eye backwards in his head, watching the mob.

"We're going now," Willard announced. "That's you too, Reynolds and Moody. The Baners are really going at it this time." He looked down at Arcana. "You should leave Diagon—"

"Not yet," Reynolds interjected. Arcana tensed when the witch reached into a pocket in her robes. "There's something fishy going on, and I'm not letting you skitter off now. Bulderman."

The larger of the Law Enforcement wizards with the Aurors made a grab for Arcana, but she slipped under his arm. Bulderman grunted in surprise, and Moody's wand swung toward Arcana. The others followed suit.

"Just wait one minute," Arcana said frantically, backing away. "I'm _not_ a Dark witch, and I'm _not_ just going to sit around while some mad wizards come barreling through here!"

"The Ministry has authorized Aurors to use deadly force in the apprehension of suspected Dark witches and wizards," Reynolds warned.

"Seven to one, missy," Moody added. His eye darted between the approaching mob and Arcana.

Arcana's hands tingled with restrained power, and she shifted her weight ever so slightly, alert for the slightest provocation. Instincts reared, snarling, hissing, growling, and bloody visions flitted across her mind's eye. Arcana blinked them away and clung to reason. Could she take them all down before one Stunned her?

"There's no reason to worry unless you've done something illegal," Willard said, trying to placate Arcana. She reached down deep, grasping at the weak threads of magic running below the streets.

Reynolds pulled a Restraining Cuff her pocket, and Arcana nearly laughed in relief. A Restraining Cuff was just that, a cuff with a chain that could be attached to any convenient heavy object. There were spells on it, of course, but nothing of consequence. They thought that would hold her. What a farce. She'd add destruction of Ministry property to her "crimes" and slip away as soon as their backs were turned.

"I'm not a bloody criminal," Arcana exclaimed.

"You might be," Moody said. Arcana shot him a scandalized look.

"This'll just keep you from wandering off, Miss Roberts," Reynolds said.

"The Baners won't get this far," Willard assured Arcana, "and we'll get you home soon after that."

"This is ridiculous." Arcana frowned nervously.

"It is perfectly safe, ma'am," Bulderman said confidently, stepping forward to block Arcana should she try to run. That was amusing.

"This is abuse! I'll file report at the Ministry," Arcana complained. Reynolds and the wizards remained unmoving. Moody's wand hand shifted just enough to signal he was about to cast. "I suppose I can wait a bit longer," she said hurriedly, "as long as it's safe."

"Left arm," Reynolds ordered, extending her gnarled hand. Arcana let the witch close the metal cuff around her wrist, and cried out in surprise, but not because of the electric spark that zapped her wrist. It was tainted iron. The bloody Auror had tainted iron. These things were not supposed to be made out of tainted iron. The breeze tickled Arcana's nose, and she realized she had been upwind so she hadn't gotten a whiff as a warning.

Reynolds dropped the chain, and the free end sank into the cobblestones. Arcana nearly cursed the witch right there. Moody was squinting at her again. If he saw something it would mean her death.

"It's a bit of a shock, but that's it. Keep tight. I'll be back," Reynolds said gruffly. "Let's go," she ordered.

The Aurors and Law Enforcement wizards strode off toward the distinctly louder racket, leaving Arcana chained to the ground outside of the closed café. As soon as they were around the corner she summoned the lone flimsy table left outside with a flick of her wrist and drew her wand to transfigure it into a heavy stone bench. The bench would not look too out of place and would provide good cover when Ferril's Bane got there. Wizarding Law Enforcement was not going to stop them, but if she was lucky, they'd march right past.

Arcana settled behind the bench, out of sight, and slipped her wand back in a pocket, thanking the stars that they had not tried to search her. She examined the Restraining Cuff she had been stupid enough to allow Reynolds to attach. These things were not supposed to be made of tainted iron . . . at least they weren't last time Arcana had encountered one, and that had been some time ago, she realized belatedly. She'd kill Reynolds for this if it ever became convenient.

Fae magic could not touch tainted iron, which was probably why it was poison to them in the first place. There was no way for Arcana to magically destroy the metal, and the cuff was actually tight enough that she could not slip it off over her small hand. Attempting even minor shape shifting would be far too risky, so that was out. The chain was firmly rooted into the cobblestones, and deeply too. It would take effort and eye-catching spells to pry that loose, but there was still the nasty built-in anti-Apparition spell – another wonderful surprise. She might have to sit through the protest and talk to Reynolds again, at least long enough to get the key.

The rally's chant was clear now in all of the languages in which they were shouting it, as were the demands of the Law Enforcement wizards. Moody's voice boomed over the protest only to be drowned out a moment later. To make matters worse, they were coming from the direction of the nearest Apparition spot. Arcana hissed an oath and examined the cuff with her second sight, finding that the locking mechanism was made of standard steel. Not one bit of magical taint. She smiled coldly. It was not the first time wizards had made that mistake.

Arcana whispered a careful spell to melt the lock and turned the cuff so the hot metal would drip to the ground. The cuff grew warm, and she narrowed her eyes, looking into the magic to hone the spell's precision.

A bright banner sailed overhead, loudly proclaiming the downfall of oppressive pureblood society in butchered English, and Arcana felt the first flashes of spellfire off to her left. A drop of red-hot molten steel fell to the ground, and Arcana's Dark Mark burned. She swore and tugged at the cuff, but it held strong. The Dark Lord was not summoning her, but he was summoning, and Arcana had a bad feeling that she knew what was going to happen next.

Another drop of liquid metal fell and sizzled on the cobblestones, quickly cooling to form a shiny puddle. Arcana pulled at the cuff, and it gave a bit, but not enough. A vicious curse hit the top of her transfigured bench, and she strengthened the melting spell, clenching her fist as the hot cuff scorched her glove. The rune-etched metal around the lock sparked, the spells cracking under the heat. Booted feet stomped in front of the bench, and Arcana ducked down lower. One last burst of power, and the lock melted completely and dribbled to the ground, hissing and steaming.

Arcana yanked the cuff open and dropped it in disgust, shaking her hands in a vain attempt to cool the burns under her singed gloves. She cast a quick Notice-Me-Not Charm and slipped out from behind the bench. A stronger spell might disrupt her glamour and make the situation far worse. She blended into the crowd and wove through it as quickly as possible, nearly colliding with Auror Reynolds, though the witch did not notice Arcana. There were more wizards with wands drawn then not, Arcana saw upon a quick scan of the mob, and then suddenly curses started flying.

A blue flash nearly took off Arcana's head, instead hitting a shop window and sending glass everywhere. She resisted the urge to brush the shards out of her glamoured hair and ducked around Bulderman, who was desperately disenchanting floating signs and vainly trying to halt the progression of the mob. Arcana broke out of the crowd and ran down the street, feeling for a spot in the anti-Apparition wards weak enough for her to break. One needed to show up fast because the Notice-Me-Not Charm would not be effective for long if she was the most noticeable thing around. Arcana's ankle throbbed, and gave way when she stepped on it wrong. She stumbled, grunting as pain stabbed through the mending bones, but she kept going. Shelly was going to yell at her when she got back.

A familiar Dark presence flooded Arcana's mind, and her Dark Mark burned again. The anti-Apparition wards _bent_, and the cracks of multiple Apparitions filled the air. The mob behind her screamed, and Arcana skidded to a halt as the street in front of her was suddenly filled with a phalanx of Death Eaters.

* * *

**Next:** "Faerie Tales and Demon Filth." Death Eaters running about Diagon Alley is never good, especially when one that Arcana particularly despises is among their number.

Thanks for reading everyone. Let me know if you enjoyed this chapter and how to make it better! :)

If you haven't gotten enough Methylethyldeth yet, she also resides on livejournal, where she posts regularly on a variety of topics. She doesn't bite visitors . . . often. :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Original elements (characters, locations, plot, etc.) are property of Methylethyldeth.

**Chapter Summary: **We left Arcana is a precarious situation. Will she make it out?

**Author Notes:** Methyl once again crawls out from under her mossy rock, clutching her ever present cup of tea and offering a long overdue update. Thanks to the beta astraia ourania for finding the words that randomly ran away from the middle of sentences and pointing out confusing things that Methyl didn't notice.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Illusions of Choice**

Chapter 3: Faerie Tales and Demon Filth

Arcana flung herself away from a volley of curses and dove toward the nearest doorway, tearing the lock apart with a wandless spell as her hand closed around the door knob. Metal shrieked and sparked when her magic hit a powerful ward, charring the wood around the knob. She slipped inside, and a spell crashed into the brick where her head had been a moment before. She cast a sealing spell on the door, muffling the sounds of battle. That was too close.

The doorknob rattled, and then someone outside yelled in pain. Arcana reinforced the sealing spell, causing the wooden door to take root in the brick facade, and then hurried through the dark entryway in search of the stairs. Anti-Apparition wards were usually weaker on the roof unless the warding wizards had been exceedingly thorough. Arcana passed an office and a lobby, both dark and gathering dust. Wizard pictures lined the unlit hallway, full of nervous looking families. It was just as cold inside the building as outside, the residents seeming to have left for an extended vacation.

The front door creaked under a curse, and then suddenly disintegrated in an explosion of wood and brick that shattered all the windows on the ground floor. Arcana dashed forward with one arm raised to ward off the shards and found the stairs just beyond the gallery. She ran up them silently, taking the steps two at a time and casting repelling wards behind her to slow her pursuer. Weak light shone through the dirty windows on the second floor, casting speckled shadows on the walls. Her bad ankle gave out, and she stumbled between steps, earning a few more bruises for her trouble and making enough noise to wake the dead.

A magically distorted voice swore a familiar oath when its owner encountered Arcana's wards on the floor below. She gritted her teeth against the ache in her ankle and ran up to the third floor and then around a corner to put something solid between her and the wand-happy Death Eater. It just had to be Walden-bloody-McNair. It was the perfect opportunity to kill him, a giddy voice in her mind urged, but the Dark Lord would find out one way or another, and that would be painful.

Arcana leaned against the wall and shifted her weight to her good foot, sinking into the shadows. Her impromptu wards shattered, and heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. McNair lacked any sense of finesse, but he possessed plenty of strength and ill will to serve as the Dark Lord required of him.

"Little witch, little witch, let me in," McNair taunted.

Arcana dropped her glamour and drew her wand, the inlaid mithril glinting in the weak light. Her fingers stung where the hot metal of the Restraining Cuff had burned her skin. Her left wrist hurt worse, and throbbed in time to her injured ankle, which had not appreciated the fall on the stairs. The scuffle had kicked up a layer of dust, and she had to stifle a sneeze.

"McNair," Arcana called out. "You'll find the real faerie stories bite back harder than the mash you feed your spawn these days."

Footsteps faltered, and waves of confusion crashed outward. _Surprise_, Arcana thought with a vicious smile. The battle outside was suddenly louder in the silence, all crashing and screaming and running. Arcana eased around the corner, wand raised.

"Harpy's cold tits!" McNair exclaimed from behind his mask, taking a step backwards, his wand aimed at Arcana's heart. Black robes hung heavily from his frame, his broad shoulders making the Death Eater regalia all the more menacing. The haze of white surprise in his magic bled to red rage. "While that does explain the door, what in the name of Merlin's crooked staff are you doing here?"

"It's of no concern. I'm leaving," Arcana said coldly, shifting her weight in preparation for a duel. McNair lowered his wand and laughed.

"Oh ho! You've been sneaking off again under your illusions, you naughty pet." He pulled off his mask, and his mouth curved into what he believed was a rakish grin, though Arcana thought it just made him look ready to eat a small, fuzzy animal. McNair raised his wand again, and Arcana sneered.

"Perhaps I'll just toss you over my shoulder and haul your arse back to the Dark Lord . . . again." McNair's wide grin took on a distinctly cruel quality, and Arcana felt a quick stab of shame from the reminder.

"And perhaps your head will roll off your shoulders this time, butcher," Arcana snapped vehemently, readying the slicing spell in her mind. "None of your playmates are here to Stun me this time." If McNair made one move, she'd have his blood on her hands, the Dark Lord's wrath be damned.

Something exploded on the street, rattling the lamps on the walls and shaking dust down from the ceiling. McNair laughed at Arcana, his elation for the raging battle warping his rotten magic.

"I see why our lord keeps you around, even if he doesn't take full advantage of it." McNair's eyes drifted over Arcana, and despite her loose robes, she had the sickening feeling that he knew what she looked like beneath them. Magic arced between the fingers of her left hand as her fury flared with sudden fire.

Arcana sensed McNair gather focus for a spell, but suddenly the red light of the Cruciatus Curse flashed through a window. He glanced toward it and grimaced. The red-tinted mask in his gloved hand bleached to white once more as the Unforgivable Curse was lifted. Screams wafted up the stairs from the street, and then more feet pounded into the building.

"Ah bugger," McNair grumbled, fitting his mask back over his features while keeping his wand trained on Arcana, his eyes darting to her left hand. "I thought they'd let me have some fun." He leered at her, and she nearly beheaded him for it. Disgusting wizard.

"Duty calls." He raised his wand in a mock salute. "Maybe another time." McNair loped back down the stairs. Arcana sneered after him and released the spell in her mind. She stretched the fingers of her left hand, and the arcing magic vanished. One day he too would be dead at her feet.

"No problem, chaps," McNair called from below. "Bellatrix, point that somewhere else! You got three guesses . . ."

Arcana silently ran up the stairs to the roof before she could catch any more of the conversation. McNair would tell the Dark Lord that she had been out, damn him to a demon's clutches. With a sharp gesture Arcana broke the lock on the door to the roof and stepped out, her breath misting in the damp air. She scanned the sky for broom-riding Aurors, but there were none. Furious curses and screams drifted up from the street, but no one had noticed her – she could sense that much. Violent flashes of spellfire lit up the smoke-filled alley far below, taking chunks out of the buildings where they hit and sending ripples through the thin ambient magic of the city. There were bodies sprawled on the cobblestones – only a couple of which were in heavy black robes – and she could smell smoke, blood, and the tang of ozone.

Arcana stuck her wand back in a pocket and scowled down at the destruction. Mortal war was a disgusting and inconvenient thing. The next time Jeriol lacked an important ingredient she would have him go and buy it for her. After her long exile she was too used to doing everything on her own.

The anti-Apparition wards on the roof were tenuous at best, and Arcana walked across the steep incline to the best spot to break them. She shifted her vision so she could see the magic clearly, and she reached into it and pulled. The wards around her unraveled with a defeated sigh, leaving a gaping hole in the protective spell. She prepared to Disapparate, but on instinct she turned around. Across the street, perched on a rooftop much like she, was the Dark Lord.

* * *

Shelly did yell at Arcana when the fae hobbled into her rooms, clearly worse for wear.

"Lady must sit down. Oh, Shelly knew that Lady shouldn't be going out." The house-elf shooed the unresisting Arcana to her chair by the hearth. "There was trouble, Shelly can tell."

Shelly yanked off Arcana's right boot without preamble and started poking at the injured ankle. Arcana gritted her teeth and stared at the dancing flames, fiercely resisting the urge to kick Shelly away. Her instincts were still on edge from the battle, and seeing the Dark Lord had shaken her more than it should have. The image of his face, drawn tight with disapproval and anger, would not fade from her mind. She might need to brew the rose hip potion sooner than she had expected.

"Is it any worse?" Arcana asked, rubbing her face with her hands in an attempt to wipe her thoughts clear of accusing red eyes. It felt like gnomes were poking hot needles into her ankle, but it had still supported her weight on the long walk through the forest.

"Lady will need more potions, and Lady mustn't go walking around anymore today," Shelly insisted, avoiding Arcana's question. "Shelly will get the Master to order it if she must!"

Arcana flinched at Shelly's sharp tone, and then sneered, disgusted at her weakness.

"No. You'd best not do that. He's displeased enough already, and I'd prefer not to remind him of my existence today." Shelly squeaked. Arcana gripped the armrests of her chair tightly and pushed down her sudden fury and the violent images that accompanied it.

"Shelly doesn't want Lady Arcana hurt!" Shelly clutched at Arcana's knee where it had been bruised on the stairs, her eyes wide as saucers. "Shelly never wants that. Please just be good, Lady. Lady needs rest, and Shelly only wants what is best for Lady Arcana."

Arcana forced a softer expression on her face before Shelly started wailing and took a deep breath. "Of course not, Shelly," Arcana said, loosening Shelly's death grip on her knee. "A battle broke out at Diagon Alley, and part of me is still fighting and running." She forced her lips to curve into a wry smile for a moment. Shelly calmed down, her expression serious.

"Shelly understands, Lady. Shelly is here for Lady Arcana, even if she must be alone."

"Thank you," Arcana said, hoping she sounded more grateful than she felt at the moment. She sighed and pulled off the singed gloves to give her somewhere to look besides Shelly's worried face. The house-elf's eyes were too trusting. Arcana's skin was red where she'd touched the hot metal, and she caught Shelly eying the mild burns. "Stay with me. My mood is foul, but I have control of my instincts."

Shelly nodded and went back to tending Arcana's injured ankle in silence. It was loyalty and compassion Arcana did not deserve, but she accepted it nonetheless. Her Dark Mark warmed under her skin, and she felt the Dark Lord's sudden nearness. Moments later she sensed others. The battle was over.

Arcana felt the Dark Lord's attention shift to her, and the brand on her arm burned. She got the distinct impression through their link that she was not to go wandering off again, and then the awareness was gone. Arcana sighed in relief, and the tightness across her shoulders eased. He must be too busy to bother cursing her. She rubbed vainly at the tingling brand. At least war was good for one thing.

* * *

Days passed without any sign from the Dark Lord, save for the occasional hum of Arcana's Dark Mark. She had done as Shelly wished, resting her ankle and only leaving her rooms shortly before dawn to expose the demon wound to the morning's first light. In her isolation boredom had quickly become an enemy. Arcana would have napped the day away save for the Dark Lord's orders to only sleep after taking his potion and her fear of more demon nightmares. A new batch of rose hip draught had been brewed and bottled – she really needed to name that potion – and she had run out of wizarding periodicals to read. She didn't feel up to experimenting with the focus ring, and even the dreams of the crystal ball were no longer enticing. In desperation, yesterday she had thumbed through a Muggle "technical" book of some sort that she had stashed away, but it was just as baffling as the last time she'd looked at it. The barmy Muggles couldn't write in proper English and had a preoccupation with the prefix 'nano.'

After a quick dinner, Arcana donned a cloak and slipped out of her rooms, ignoring Shelly's despondent sighs. The sun had set a few hours ago, and she needed something to occupy her time until dawn. She refused to sleep after sundown even with the Dark Lord's potion since Xhal Thos still tickled her waking thoughts at night. Arcana crossed paths with a dozen unfamiliar witches and wizards in the corridors. None had even turned their heads at Arcana's passing until she came across Bellatrix Lestrange.

The witch's dark eyes were sharp and glittered in the shadows of her hood. There was a new confidence in her posture and a black clarity in her magic. Her body bore the signs of a second youth, and Arcana could almost smell the crude Dark magic she had used. Virgin's blood renewed the physical, but not for long, and would rot her already blackened magic if she used it often.

Bellatrix planted herself in the middle of the corridor, blocking Arcana's way. Arcana stopped, keeping a distance between them that would give her the advantage if curses began to fly.

Bellatrix threw back her hood and glared. There was no grey left in her black hair, and her lips curved into a mocking smile.

"My lord's pet . . . skulking around in the shadows. How does the tug of that short leash feel around your neck?"

"I still have better things to do than converse with you." Arcana took a step forward. Bellatrix did not move.

"The Dark Lord would be displeased with your attitude toward his most loyal," Bellatrix said.

"If you hold him in such esteem, you should obey his orders and let me be."

"This is for him! It is all for him," Bellatrix snapped, her eyes flashing, only to become calm again a moment later. "Unlike you. You're unable serve anyone or anything. Without purpose! Without true reason or emotion – only an illusion of magic," she accused. "My lord can see through you, and so can I."

Arcana took another step forward, refusing to dignify Bellatrix's ignorance with a response. If she gave voice to her anger, Arcana wasn't sure she could stop her magic from following.

"Despite his leniency, you sneer at my lord's generosity. You don't deserve to lick the dust from his boots."

"I doubt he'd wish me close enough to do so," Arcana replied, flexing her clawed fingers. Bellatrix's gaze darted to them before locking with Arcana's eyes. A muscle in the witch's cheek twitched, and she looked elsewhere. Perhaps Bellatrix had seen the scars Arcana had inflicted on the Dark Lord's old body. She certainly seemed willing to attend to his every need, and he had taken the care to be present when Arcana had patched the witch's soul back together.

"You're close enough that he runs off to banish your nightmares. Are scary dreams rattling around the little fae's soulless skull?" Bellatrix taunted, lapsing into an abhorrent cooing voice. Arcana gritted her teeth. Her fingers tingled as magic pooled there, ready to strike down the witch. She could show Bellatrix first hand the effects of losing one's soul.

"Ask the Dark Lord if you really want to know, Lestrange. But will he tell you the truth?"

"I am his most loyal! His most trusted." Insanity flashed over Bellatrix's features, and her hand inched toward the sleeve where she stowed her wand.

Arcana touched her thumb to her third finger and magic sparked. She would kill – no, stop Bellatrix before she drew. The Dark Lord would not forgive her for murdering his apprentice. The witch took a deep breath, her eyes rolled back, and then she was calm again – magic and emotions became black and still. Arcana just raised a pale eyebrow, unseen under her hood, and brushed past Bellatrix. The witch was shaking.

"I'm watching you," Bellatrix hissed down at Arcana.

Arcana walked away, and a moment later she heard Bellatrix stride off in the opposite direction. The stones beneath Arcana's feet became thick, scaly coils, and then they were stone again. She recognized the awareness of the fortress now, letting it slip to and from her senses as it wished. It seemed that Bellatrix Lestrange was not the only one watching her.

There had been worry in Lestrange's eyes, and Arcana guessed that was the source of her vitriol. The witch may have confronted her, but it was a defensive move – her stance, her words, everything screamed that she was protecting . . . something. Bellatrix did not fear Arcana personally, that much she could tell. So what was it?

Arcana ignored the lascivious look McNair sent her way when they crossed paths. Humans – their minds were on that half the time and on war the rest. Arcana's feet stopped working, and she nearly tripped as it all became clear. Bellatrix was defending her claim on the Dark Lord. Arcana choked back her laughter and forced her feet to start walking again.

_It is all for him_, Bellatrix's words echoed in Arcana's mind. She'd have better luck getting attention out of a rock. At least the witch could enchant the rock to feel an illusion of attraction.

The library door was locked as always, but opened with a touch of Arcana's hand. The everburning candles flared to life with a wave, casting a warm glow onto the leather-bound books that lined the room floor to ceiling. Arcana had spent many hours sitting in the comfortable chair by the fireplace, reading dusty old tomes with her feet propped up on the grate, inches from the flames. The thought of pouring over another ancient Dark grimoire put a sour taste in her mouth, reminding her of the months she'd spent researching on the Dark Lord's behalf. Arcana ran her gloved fingers over the place on her neck where the demon Xhal Thos had left its scars, and she shuddered. The runes forming its name still smoldered in her mind when she thought of it.

Banishing the memories of demon teeth tearing into her flesh, Arcana walked across the library and easily found the small star that was carved amidst the intricate vines along the edge of one shelf. Nothing visibly changed when she touched it, but Arcana sensed the passage open, and she stepped through the shelf, the books, and the wall without even blinking.

She walked down the dark corridor, taking the left fork when it branched. The right was so heavily warded that it was black to her magical sight, but she knew there were stairs leading upward from the one time she had seen it lit with a torch. The corridor narrowed and the carving became rougher, as if the wizard responsible had not bothered to go back and finish it. Reaching the point where the tunnel abruptly dead-ended, Arcana reached out and touched each wall with her fingers. She closed her eyes and slowly stepped backwards until she felt the wall on her left ripple. The wards recognized her as fae and desiring entry of free will, and Arcana stepped through the stone.

Fermented Wild magic hung thick in the air like a heady perfume. Torches sputtered to life, sparking strange colors, their governing spells corrupted by long neglect, and tuneless music bounced between trunks and shelves, ringing off of steel and mithril. Magic drifted about Arcana's legs as she wandered aimlessly through the artifacts, occasionally running her hands over one as she passed.

Arcana wasn't sure who carved this storeroom into the rock or why, let alone how it became filled with reminders of her home. Oh, it was obviously the Slytherin family's doing, and from the decay of the spells protecting the room, it had been sealed for centuries, but that was all she could deduce. The magical relics were mostly useless, either needing to be used in the fae realms, or simply requiring more power than a starving cripple like her could channel. Arcana sighed, caressing the air an inch above a rune-encrusted stone that may have been part of a gateway between the mortal world and her own. The incomplete spells hummed discordantly, as if the stone knew there was no point to its existence now, rather like her.

This place might be a fitting tomb.

Nearby magic reacted to Arcana's morbid thoughts and exploded in a shower of green-black glitter. It took considerable effort to wrench back her musings from her bleak future. Dwelling on the past was safer, though not much happier . . .

The woods were quiet that windless night. The nearest humans were five miles away in a Muggle village, and they never wandered this way in winter. Arcana stepped to the edge of a clearing and wrapped her body in shadow, her senses stretched to their fullest, searching for the telltale shift of Apparition. She had tucked her high collar around her face and pulled the brim of her hat low. Smoked glasses hid the shimmer of High magic in her eyes that would betray her despite the vague glamour she had cast. Arcana had learned the hard way that such precautions were often the only thing between her and a dagger of tainted steel. Wizards thought that this world had been free of fae for eight hundred years, and they were mostly right, but they had not forgotten their version of history, and the summary execution of fae was still wizarding law.

The muffled sound of a snapping twig, a breath of air, and the overwhelming sensation of Dark magic, like the blackest of clouds and the rumble of thunder, announced the arrival of Lord Voldemort. Arcana saw nothing in the trees or the clearing, and she smiled. He too was cautious and, like her, knew exactly what he was doing. She turned her head to the wind and caught his scent – something not quite human, mingled with old books, potion components, and the moist leaves. He had come alone, as Arcana had requested.

Tendrils of Dark magic stretched out from a point across the clearing as Voldemort searched for the soul hunter, letting Arcana pinpoint his location, but his probing magic found nothing but trees and shadow. He stepped into the clearing, long black robes trailing behind as if he were pulling the shadows along with him, and Arcana sensed a tremor of what might have been emotion in his magic. He was very tall and thin, and though his face was hooded, she could see his crimson eyes, narrowed to slits, scanning the trees for her presence. She smiled once more, enjoying her moment of power over this feared wizard.

The shadows fell away from Arcana, and Voldemort turned sinuously, fixing her with his piercing gaze. She smiled as his Legilimency found no purchase in her mind, slipping past as if she were only air. He was powerful and adept, but that was not enough to overcome her many years of experience. His magic drew back, trying to get a taste for her general state and failing. This wizard would be a challenge, there was no doubt, and she would need to be very careful, but she hadn't had this much fun for a long time. Arcana walked forward silently to join Lord Voldemort in the clearing and then inclined her head in silent greeting.

"Soul hunter," Lord Voldemort hissed. "I am pleased to meet you at last."

"Lord Voldemort," Arcana said softly, catching a flicker of surprise flash over the wizard's face. Her voice was not what he had expected. She was not what he had expected. She never was what they expected. "You have a proposition for me."

"Yes, hunter." His tone was laced with irritation, likely because she had taken command of the conversation. "And as I wrote in my letter, gold is no issue. Neither is anything else you require. Lord Voldemort provides for those who serve him."

"I serve no one, Lord Voldemort. This will be a purely contractual arrangement. We will agree on the number of souls you require and the price, and then we will meet again for an exchange. That is how I work." Clients always wanted to shackle her to them and, except for the sheer power he radiated, this one was no different.

"Is that so?" he hissed. Bloody red flares blossomed in his magic, though his face betrayed no emotion.

Arcana stood perfectly still, ready to Disapparate should his wand hand so much as twitch. This one was quick to anger. With that and the magical power that flowed about him, she was beginning to understand why no witch or wizard dared utter his name.

"Yes, Lord Voldemort, and if that is not to your liking, our conversation is over."

"Don't be so hasty, hunter." He raised one hand slowly, gesturing for her to stay. "Why throw away the opportunity of a lifetime? Unless you're afraid." He sneered down at Arcana, and her pride prickled. Perhaps she'd walk away and vanish for his lifetime, just out of spite.

"I hold no allegiance. I work independently on my terms, or not at all." Arcana deliberately turned her back on him to leave. She had all the time in the world, but that was no reason to waste it on this fool wizard.

"A contract then, hunter," Lord Voldemort said. Arcana halted and slowly turned back to him. "You will work for me exclusively." His commanding tone sent a chill down Arcana's spine. Perhaps it had been a mistake to respond to his letter, but she'd wanted a challenge and here it stood waiting before her.

"That would be very costly, Lord Voldemort," Arcana said cautiously. "My terms for such a contract will be stringent, and I will not negotiate them."

Voldemort smiled like a snake wrapping its coils about its prey.

"I'm confident that we can construct a mutually beneficial agreement. A blood contract, magically binding."

"We shall see, Lord Voldemort."

Crimson eyes and rotted red-black magic dared Arcana to accept. Lord Voldemort extended one spidery hand.

. . . A crawling sensation under her skin and the explosion of more fermented Wild magic brought Arcana back to the present. Her feet had wandered while she had been lost in thought and had brought her to a dusty corner of the storeroom and to a perfectly clean relic that had begged to be touched. The scrying mirror beneath Arcana's hands hummed, its surface fogging over, then becoming black as the night sky. Arcana snatched her hands from the surface and looked away. She'd never had good luck with those things. Accidentally shredding her mind was not something she wanted to add to her list of stupid mistakes.

That creeping sensation shivered under Arcana's skin again, and she gritted her teeth. The barest touch of her mind upon her link to the Dark Lord sent her doubling over in a fit of dry heaves. Smoky magic hovered behind her eyes and brimstone stung the back of her throat. He had opened Xhal Thos' book.

Wild magic thrashed around Arcana's body, screeching like iron nails against a chalkboard, and the storeroom swam before her eyes. The forests were burning and death keens filled the air. Arcana stumbled to the wall and cleared her mind, leaning against the stone and passing through it into the dark corridor. She stood there for a time with her eyes clenched shut, pushing away the shadows of memory that were not her own. At least one thing in that room was old enough to have known the time when demons had pillaged the fae realms.

A cool breeze touched the back of Arcana's neck, and she felt dangerous magic shift about her, almost sentient. She grounded her mind and let her intent be known. The presence faded back into the walls, and Arcana turned about and quickly walked away before she got eviscerated by a dead wizard's cranky wards.

* * *

Firelight glinted off Arcana's wine glass as she swirled the rose-hued liquid within. She was comfortably ensconced in the relative safety of her rooms, curled up in her armchair by the hearth. It was quiet save for the soft tick of the clock on the mantel and the background hum of muted magic.

Her sitting room was a peaceful haven built on top of the black stone that comprised all floors, walls, and ceilings of the Dark Lord's fortress. A mishmash of elven rugs was strewn over the floor, shelves filled with magical tools lined one wall, and a heavy table stood in one corner with an equally heavy chair. Two armchairs stood before the hearth, with the Dark Lord's snake-embellished monstrosity looming over Arcana's fae-crafted refinement. His chair has been there since she had first set foot in these rooms – a reminder that she could never be far from him within these walls. Arcana's lips curled in a sneer. Using such crass tactics was unnecessary with her. The entire fortress and the surrounding lands were stained with his magic.

Shortly before dawn the Dark Lord had closed the demon book, and although the dirty, crawling sensation in their link had evaporated, Arcana's perception of the world was left somehow discolored, as if coated with the remnants of demon filth. The Dark Lord had kept his end of their connection locked down so she couldn't determine how he had fared during or after his idiotic exploration, but considering what she'd passively sensed, that was probably a good thing.

Arcana had hoped that the Dark Lord would see reason and keep the book locked away and unopened, but perhaps that was impossible under the conditions Xhal Thos had set for the loan. A shiver ran down her spine, and she didn't bother pretending it was from the cold. With luck the Dark Lord would kill himself with this folly. It would certainly save her a lot of work.

The firelight reflected off of the gilt title of a book left forgotten on the small table at Arcana's side. It had been dull reading after the heady magic suffusing the storeroom. She shifted in her chair and tucked her slippered feet under herself, glancing at the clock on the mantel. The afternoon was wearing on, and she expected a summons since the last vial of the Dark Lord's sleeping potion was now empty. Boots, gloves, and cloak were already set out on the heavy table on the other side of the sitting room thanks to Shelly's foresight. Arcana took a sip of wine. It tasted like ash.

Disgusted, she set the glass aside and reached for the crystal ball, nestled safely in its silk lined box by her side. This at least should have remained untainted by the demon filth. Arcana wrapped her hands around the cool sphere and closed her eyes, drawing her focus inward. Magic swirled within her mind, undefined, yet not wholly without shape.

_A company of men rode out of the forest as if the devil was at their backs, speeding onward to what they considered civilization. Hooves pounded the road that cut through the bleak holding, flinging up clods of mud as men kicked at the flanks of their steeds. It was a sorry sight to see, these humans huddled in shacks and behind stone walls, lord and peasant the same. All were cold, all were hungry, and many were sick – everyone was dying. Death hung over the barren fields, and smoke rose from somewhere in the keep behind the tattered flag flying from the highest tower. The grey sky threatened to storm again soon, causing mortal eyes to dart furtively upward and mortal mouths to utter nonsense prayers. Arcana swung down from her perch on the sturdy branch of an oak tree, sparing the mortals one last glance. Humans must have done something terrible to make this world hate them so._

The vision dissolved as Arcana's Dark Mark burned. She let go of the crystal ball, resting the shining sphere of magic in her lap, and then acknowledged the summons. The sharp pain below the crook of her left elbow faded to a tingling, and the Dark Lord's attention moved elsewhere, but not before ghosting over the magical haze of the dream. He had noticed, again. Arcana grimaced and rose, gently replacing the crystal ball in its box and returning it to the locked drawer by her bed. That piece of furniture belonged to her and not the Dark Lord, and she doubted he could break into it without loss of limb and considerable scarring. Arcana exchanged slippers for boots, pulled on her long gloves, and tossed her cloak over her shoulders, drawing the hood low over her face and tucking an errant wisp of white hair behind her ear. The corridors were blessedly empty that day.

The door of the Dark Lord's study creaked open as Arcana approached, sending a shaft of golden candlelight across the corridor's floor. The Dark Lord was ensconced behind his desk, busy setting a sealing spell on a rolled-up scroll. Arcana offered him a shallow bow, carefully hiding her revulsion at the sludge of demonic residue coating his magic.

"Have you been sleeping well, my fae?" The Dark Lord set aside the sealed scroll and locked gazes with Arcana. A heavy pressure descended upon her shoulders, and a command to kneel drifted across her surface thoughts. She slipped through his magic without physically moving, and then wiped away the filth that tried to sink into her being.

"Yes, my lord," Arcana replied with a slight inclination of her head. "Your potion prevented any dreams."

"And there have been no other problems?" The Dark Lord propped his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers.

"No, my lord. I have not experienced any episodes during my waking hours." The crimson eyes bored into Arcana's mind only to hit her impenetrable mental shields. The Dark Lord's mind ghosted across the barrier and then retreated, leaving behind a faint haze of demon filth, which Arcana immediately stripped away.

"Then we will assume that the matter is resolved unless further incidents occur. You may go, Arcana." The Dark Lord rose and went to consult a detailed magical map levitating in front of one of the bookshelf-lined walls.

Arcana bowed and turned to leave.

"I will expect you on the East tower at midnight for Stargazing."

A complaint rose from her throat regarding the incompatibility of the High magic required for Stargazing and demon filth, but she shoved it back down with a grimace. He was in no mood to be bothered, and she had no desire to get cursed while his magic was stained.

"As you wish, my lord," Arcana said obediently. The Dark Lord waved a shooing hand in her direction, and Arcana left, the door closing and locking behind her with a solid click.

* * *

Silver fire lanced through Arcana, so compelling that she almost cried. She stretched toward the stars, floating in the nothingness above the world, and they began to whisper. It was faint at first, but Arcana had learned to tune out the magic of the land upon which she supposed her feet still rested. The promise of all that could have been and all that may yet be danced before her, just out of reach. Always out of reach.

Cords of red-black magic tangled around her limbs and tugged her back. The stars were almost within her grasp, but a familiar voice issued a command, and Arcana fell. She gasped for breath, suddenly seeing the valley spread below her and the night sky glittering above. The tower was unsteady under her feet and the stone parapet felt unreal under her trembling hands, like she would fall through it at any moment.

"What did you see, my fae?"

Cold fingers snaked around and grasped Arcana's chin. She yielded and turned to look up at the swirling magic that was the Dark Lord, now barely stained with the smoky residue of demon magic. The stones under her feet and at her back turned to serpent coils for an instant, and then were stone again. Arcana shifted her vision, and the Dark Lord's pale visage resolved itself.

"I saw nothing, my lord." Arcana took a deep breath to ground herself, and the world steadied – earth below, life around, and sky above. "Again, nothing."

It was the truth, and Arcana made sure the Dark Lord knew it. His thin lips pressed together in annoyance, and the skin around his eyes creased, but that was the end of it. His hand fell away, and Arcana turned to look at the forest. The winter wind bit her cheeks, whispering its own dark message and blowing the embers of her frustration toward anger.

In the half-dozen times Arcana had tried to Stargaze, she had made no progress. The failure was irritating as failure always was, but deep down she was relieved. Something inside drove her to reach further every time, and she didn't know what would happen if she finally touched that silver fire.

"Perhaps next time," the Dark Lord said. He grasped Arcana's arm, and her brand warmed. She tensed when he pulled her closer, her hands tingling as she instinctively pooled raw magic there. "There is one more thing."

Without another word the Dark Lord Apparated them to his rooms. He released her arm, and Arcana forced her magic to settle, clenching her hands into fists as best she could without gouging her palms with her claws. She hated side-along Apparition. The Dark Lord's rooms were sweltering as usual, and the abrupt change in temperature made her flush. She pulled off her cloak and outer robes, tossing them over a disused chair in the corner. Her gloves clung to her skin uncomfortably, but she wouldn't remove them without a direct order.

Steam was rising from a pitcher of spiced cider that a house-elf had set on a table in front of the hearth. The Dark Lord crooked his finger, prompting the pitcher to rise and pour cider into two cups. He levitated one cup to his outstretched hand and sat, gesturing expectantly to the chair across from his. Arcana held back a snarl and did as he desired, taking the less imposing chair that was built with wizards in mind, making it too high for her feet to rest comfortably on the floor. The Dark Lord's red eyes gave nothing away, so Arcana just summoned her cup of cider from the table with a wave. Her patience was a finite commodity, and she was coming to end of it.

"There is a delicate matter that must be attended to, my fae," the Dark Lord stated. "I lack the time to travel to Prague and track down the necessary parties personally, and the few of my loyal Death Eaters possessing the necessary qualities for this mission are otherwise occupied."

Arcana regarded him warily and took a sip of the cider. She recoiled with a scowl, tasting a mild relaxant mixed in with the usual spices. The Dark Lord smiled slightly. He had not drunk any of the cider. More games.

"You will act as my emissary, Arcana."

Arcana hid a sneer with the pretense of sniffing the contents of the cup, feeling the lightest touch against the edge of her mind as the Dark Lord tried to gauge her reaction. She met his eyes for a moment, and then looked to the dancing fire. Though acting as the Dark Lord's emissary in matters of politics was bearable, it was an order, and Arcana did not appreciate being ordered.

"I am not contract-bound to do so, my lord," Arcana replied without emotion, catching a faint note of irritation in the Dark Lord's magic. The fingers of his wand hand twitched.

Nagini slithered into the room, brushing past the Dark Lord's boots and flicking her tongue at Arcana before twisting into a mound of coils on the warm flagstones in front of the fireplace.

"You will be well paid, as always, and you can't deny that you want to . . . stretch your legs a bit."

Arcana set the cup of cider on her knee and glared at Nagini. So that was why he'd been keeping her cooped up. Arcana resisted the urge to tap her claws against the cup. The last time she'd annoyed the Dark Lord with that habit she'd gained a new appreciation for his skill at casting curses.

"I haven't lived this long by stirring up trouble, my lord."

"No, you usually Disapparate before the trouble erupts," the Dark Lord said.

"Only when I'm able to choose my battles." Arcana fidgeted in her creaky armchair. The Dark Lord needed a better reason than that to convince her to do his dirty work.

"Have some more cider, my fae, lest your stubborn streak get the best of you."

The dangerous look in the Dark Lord's eyes prompted Arcana to take a very small sip, letting her hide another sneer behind the cup. The drug in the cider was dilute enough that could drink it all without ill effect, but the principle of the matter irked her to no end. Arcana settled deeper into the chair, leaving her feet hanging above the floor, and like a bored human child stuck in a similar predicament, she longed to start kicking at something.

"Do be grateful for your lord's kindness," the Dark Lord advised. Arcana didn't bother to look contrite. "Remember, I know you've worked in Prague before."

"I took one contract, and left quickly after, my lord. Half the city smells of golems and the undead. The rest is now packed with chattering Muggle tourists blindly walking through wards they can't see."

"Neither of which will trouble you."

"That land is not receptive to the subtle spells that are best suited for such delicate situations." Arcana despised open confrontation if victory wasn't assured. If danger arose she was more suited to manipulating ambient magic to create distractions that granted her time to slip away from drawn wands or unweave wards. The British Isles were mostly amenable to this. Prague was not.

"Prague would not be Prague without a few magical explosions," the Dark Lord countered, waving one spidery hand in dismissal. "You wreaked plenty of destruction on my land when it was against you, and you could always fall back on 'crude' wizarding spells." He had drenched that last bit with disdain, which made a cold smile tug at Arcana's lips.

"The weather in Prague is dreadful this time of year," she said forebodingly. The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed to crimson slashes on his pale face, and bright anger rippled along the edges of his magic.

"You will learn to accept my orders with grace, Arcana."

"The sun will burn green first, my lord."

"Is it green in the fae realms?"

"Perhaps." If time and place were not static in the realms, there was certainly no reason the sun could not do as it wished.

The Dark Lord's magic flashed with sudden rage, and Arcana prudently took another sip of the adulterated cider, thinking the act might ease what was to come. The brand on her left arm burned, but she ignored it and plastered a thoughtful look on her face. Surprisingly the pain faded to a dull throb quickly enough instead of intensifying to agony. He must really need her to go if that had not broken his temper. Perhaps being needed was not all that bad.

She hated politics, and the Dark Lord knew it. Perhaps that was the reason for the civility of his proposal. Truth be told, she was desperate to get away from the fortress and the oppressive magic that permeated the place. Her trip to Alexandria in autumn had been her last break from the monotony of Darkness, and with the stress of the demon summoning her sojourn at the Library seemed years past, not months.

Arcana's thoughts suddenly flew back to Alexandria, and it took all her control to keep her face and magic free of emotion. She took several steady breaths and ran a finger along the rim of her cup. If there was anywhere she could learn about blood magic, it would be the Library. Mucking about Prague was risky, but the opportunity was too good to pass up, and he expected her to take the mission just to get away.

"I will have freedom to act and time for myself after this task of yours is complete, my lord," Arcana said, tasting victory.

"Of course." The Dark Lord relaxed into his chair, extending his legs and crossing them at the ankle. "You will be contacting an old acquaintance of mine and as such, you must be able to defend yourself properly."

Arcana took another sip of cider, playing the part of the semi-obedient servant, and grimaced. Prague was full of Dark wizards and was home to the few European necromancers outside the Summoners' Guild, and she was supposed to track down one of them. Lovely.

"When you find Boris Raskovic you will contact me and make sure he doesn't slink back to his family home before I arrive. Aggravating him is acceptable, but be mindful that my negotiations will be trying, even without a pile of corpses."

The name was familiar to Arcana, and she repressed a snarl that threatened to break her cold expression. The Dark Lord could contact the entire Prague Enclave through Boris Raskovic, scion of the Raskovic family. She only had a vague idea of what territory the family controlled and what branch of particularly nasty magic they specialized in. Again, lovely. She thought about Alexandria and revenge, and the Dark Lord's task seemed more palatable.

"I'll need accurate maps of the city and the surrounding countryside, my lord."

"So you haven't been back since then."

"No," Arcana said. Wanting to cut off that line of inquiry, she finished her cider in two gulps and pointedly set the cup down on the table next to the pitcher. It took concentration to pull her arm back from the table and not let it just fall limp. Surprise was dulled as her heart rate slowed in response to the relaxant.

"Lord Voldemort provides for those who serve him faithfully. You will have all the information you need, my fae."

Arcana muttered an acknowledgment, her eyes drifting shut. Her head fell back against the chair. The Dark Lord's magic shimmered with amusement, and Nagini hissed her version of laughter.

"I suppose I should have warned you that it tends to sink to the bottom of the cup."

Arcana had the urge to make an obscene gesture, but that seemed like too much work. "I know it does," she grumbled, unwilling to admit her surprise. "Just do what you intended and leave me in peace."

The Dark Lord chuckled. His mind drifted into their link, and Arcana's Dark Mark burned. The red-black magic smelled faintly of brimstone, and she cringed, shifting under its touch. He withdrew a few moments later, and Arcana shoved away the smoky slime of demon magic residue. She turned her head to glare at the Dark Lord, but the movement made her dizzy, and she snarled, going very still until the room stopped wavering. Upon applying her concentration to cleansing the relaxant from her body, Arcana's thoughts cleared somewhat.

"There was no need to contaminate good cider for that, my lord," Arcana said sharply.

"Be glad it was unnecessary. I had to verify that I could contact you over long distances, and that you could accurately relay your location to me."

"And asking me was out of the question?" Arcana rubbed at her itching brand, careful to keep her head still.

"Yes."

The look on his face and the cadence of his magic dared her to question him further. Arcana bit her tongue to keep from asking what he had really been after, recognizing the edge of a bad mood when she saw it. She turned to glare at Nagini, who had started hissing rude comments. The snake ignored the fae and slithered up to the Dark Lord, winding around him with a self-satisfied look in her sharp eyes. The Dark Lord's hand automatically started stroking Nagini's scaly coils, and some tension slipped from his bony shoulders.

Irritation trickled back as Arcana cleared the drug from her system, but she kept her face blank – the image of an obedient servant, or at least as close as she could manage. The brand on her arm tingled, and Arcana caught a hint of the Dark Lord's emotions sliding along their link. Then there was just the normal hum of magic. She needed to get away from the Dark Lord and his fortress, if only to think without him hovering over her shoulder.

In another age Arcana would have enjoyed these twisting games, but now they just made her head hurt. Maybe that was what being mortal was like.

* * *

**Next:** "An Ironic Riddle." Arcana journeys to Prague, intent to complete the Dark Lord's mission as quickly as possible so she can make her way to Alexandria and come one step closer to revenge and freedom.

Thank you for reading this latest installment. Methyl is nearly ready to send chapter four off to the beta and is currently writing chapter eight. Maybe we'll manage to update sooner this time! :p

If you haven't gotten enough Methylethyldeth yet, she also resides on livejournal, where she posts regularly on a variety of topics. She doesn't bite visitors . . . often. :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Original elements (characters, locations, plot, etc.) are property of Methylethyldeth.

**Chapter Summary: **Arcana may be in Prague, but the Dark Lord's shadow lingers over her still, and, of course, there are complications.

**Author Notes:** Methyl once again crawls out from under her mossy rock, clutching her ever-present cup of tea and offering a long overdue update. Many thanks to the beta astraia_ourania, who looked over this chapter twice because Methyl just had to tweak it after her first edit. Hopefully it was worth the wait.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Illusions of Choice **

Chapter 4: An Ironic Riddle

A well-dressed young man crossed his legs at the ankles, turned to stare out the dirty window, and pushed his dark glasses back up his nose, somehow making the whole process look more elegant than it should have been. The vinyl cushions squeaked in a way reminiscent of very bad leather when he shifted against them to better see the blur of muddy green and brown countryside as the Muggle train sped along the tracks toward Prague.

The woman sitting across the compartment fidgeted and flipped a page of her book, glancing up at the man when she thought he wouldn't notice.

The fae under the false human skin sighed and stretched her too-long and too-masculine legs, belatedly realizing that she'd been sitting perfectly still except for the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Humans were disturbed by that, even if they didn't consciously recognize what their eyes were telling them.

Over the last couple hours the woman seated across from Arcana had tried to engage the fae, whom she saw as a handsome, dark-haired man, in conversation several times to no avail. Thankfully having admitted defeat, she was now reading a dog-eared romance novel with a pout on her face. If the woman had still been paying attention to the man's profile, she might have caught the flash of silver in his grey eyes.

Arcana closed her eyes and stilled her magic. It would hardly do to startle the Muggle after all. She rubbed the pad of her thumb over the tips of her clawless fingers, irritated with the sensation despite being well aware of her true body and how the magic of her newest glamour bent around it. Wearing gloves over glamoured skin was the worst. She tugged them off and ignored the Muggle woman when she looked up from her book again. The lack of tainted iron was one benefit to traveling Muggle-style. Arcana suspected it was likely the only benefit.

A small smile quirked her lips. It wasn't every day she could walk around blithely while looking just a little too much like the overconfident young wizard she had spotted in one of Prague's grimy pubs forty some odd years ago. She took a long breath. By North and South that had been a long forty years. Back then Jeriol Ironcraft had just inherited his Knocturn Alley shop from that wretched old witch who had apprenticed him right out of Hogwarts. Buying soul hunting supplies from him that first time had certainly been a . . . unique experience. He'd made a good pot of tea, even then.

Arcana wiggled her too-long toes in her too-stiff boots, cursing modern human fashions. Wearing a glamour this tall was awkward – something she normally considered unacceptable – but the irony was just too perfect, so she had set aside caution this one time. In addition to the boots, the charade had necessitated the purchase of robes, with the Dark Lord's gold of course, that would fit the large frame since a stray spell might break any transfiguration work she could have done on her own clothes. The trouble would be worth it if it shortened her stay in Prague.

The sooner she completed her mission, the sooner she could go to the Great Library in Alexandria to find that key piece of blood magic that would bring the Dark Lord to his knees and win Arcana her freedom. She scowled at her reflection in the scratched window. If the Dark Lord's own face didn't attract attention in Prague, nothing would. It was odd to think that he had been so very human all those years ago. If he had contracted her services when he'd been that young, she'd probably still refer to him by name in her thoughts.

Beyond Arcana's reflection, magic overlaid the countryside like a patchwork quilt – thin in some places, thick and Dark in others, and Wild at the edge of Arcana's perception, where neither Muggle nor wizard often wandered. She couldn't see Prague yet, but the mass of wards would be visible, buzzing in her head, long before the first buildings appeared on the horizon. Apparition directly into Prague was troublesome, Portkeys untrustworthy, and the wizarding train too closely monitored, so that had left the Muggle train system as the safest option. Arcana had not even considered _flying_ to Prague. She hardly trusted the Muggles to keep a train running without magic, and at least that wouldn't fall out of the sky when it broke.

Arcana's nose itched, and the back of her throat burned after breathing the harsh chemical fumes in the compartment for several hours. The Muggle woman didn't seem to notice anything amiss, so Arcana had to assume the odor was normal. She looked down through the floor to the spinning wheels and suppressed a shudder. She was being carried across the land by a dead metal shell whose soul had withered to dust.

From here, the Raskovic family compound lay to the northeast, hidden from view by magical means since its construction in the fifteen hundreds – not that Arcana cared since she had no intention of going anywhere near it. She had spent a day pawing through the Dark Lord's libraries to find a read _A Less Than Brief History of the Great Pureblood Lines of the Ancient Prefecture of Prague and its Noble Surrounding Lands_. Beyond a few random, overly wordy facts, it had been a waste of time. Arcana squinted, trying to make out what lay behind the powerful wards. Meadows and trees gave way to a wash of magic, and an impenetrable Dark blot bloomed like a putrid flower on the grasslands about fifteen miles away by Arcana's estimate.

A loud ringing noise jarred Arcana out of her trance. The Muggle woman pulled out a small plastic thing, pushed a button, and started jabbering. Arcana kept a sneer off of her face and looked out the window again, drawing on a bit more ambient magic to enhance her vision as the woman blathered louder into the device.

Sparks flew out of the Muggle contraption, and the woman shrieked, tossing away the plastic thing, which smacked the wall by Arcana's head and then clattered to the floor. Acrid smoke rose from the very dead phone. For a moment, the Muggle woman was nearly still as Arcana, her eyes wide and accusing, as if she thought the device had been out to get her all along.

Arcana bit back a chuckle, instead raising one dark eyebrow and arranging her face into one of the Dark Lord's irritated expressions. Her amusement died as soon as the woman started ranting about "exploding batteries," whatever those were, in her shrill voice. It wasn't Arcana's fault that some silly Muggle inventions tended to react badly to magic. She sighed and urged the train to go faster, but wasn't surprised when it didn't listen. Bloody Muggle contraptions.

It was mid-afternoon by the time the train arrived in Prague. Arcana buttoned up her long wool coat and opened her black umbrella as she disembarked, skirting around a family and their pile of luggage. It was pouring rain, it was cold, and the sky was dark enough that the electric streetlights were glowing. She hadn't been lying to the Dark Lord when she'd said the weather was miserable this time of year. It might be snowing by nightfall. Arcana hurried out of the train station and boarded a trolley crowded with grumpy locals that would take her to the entrance of the wizarding district. At least it wasn't tourist season. Another phone – she swore those things were smaller every time she saw them – died spectacularly during the ride, but it wasn't her fault that the man had turned the thing on while crossing the edge of a nasty ward.

Arcana maneuvered out of her seat and ducked out the trolly's door, feeling uncomfortably tall. Just what tall people did with this much arm and leg she would never know. Arcana unfurled her umbrella and trudged down the street in the heart of the Old Town of Muggle Prague, heavy warding magic humming in her mind and prickling her skin. Warm cream walls and red-tiled roofs managed to instill a bit of cheer in both the dreary day and the scurrying Muggles. From somewhere out of sight, the Muggle Orloj, an astronomical clock, chimed in new the hour. Arcana noted the time and glared at the shop signs from under her umbrella. Prague's wizards had copied the Orloj, adding a few magical features, and installing it in the heart of their invisible district. Of course, now most wizards believed their version was the original.

A bookstore melted into existence between a café and an antique shop, its old wooden sign creaking as it swung in the wind. Arcana folded her umbrella and slipped inside. Chimes clanged as the door opened, drawing the attention of the proprietor who was perched on a ladder, pulling down books from a high shelf. There was magic in this bookstore, and no small part of it was Dark. Robes hung from a hook behind the register and there was an empty owl perch by the window. Subtle Muggle repelling charms had been set to keep Muggles from seeing most of the shop if they happened to wander inside. Arcana stepped lightly over a cursed floorboard that would shrivel the hands of thieves. Yes, this was the right spot.

"Good afternoon. Maps and tour guides on your left," the wizard droned in Bulgarian, as if he said the same phrase twenty times a day, waving to a shelf full of brightly colored books on the other side of the store. His peered at Arcana from the corner of his eye while one of his hands drifted toward the wand that was sticking out of his waistcoat.

Unperturbed, she walked up to a shelf by the wizard, withdrew a Dark spellbook from a shelf that would have been hard to reach at her natural height and thumbed through the pages. It was a new edition, full of standard hexes and curses, some of which would have guaranteed the caster a lengthy stay in Azkaban if caught in wizarding Britain.

"I'm actually looking for something of more substance. I've been told the way's through the back," Arcana said, letting the Bulgarian come a bit rough and with an English accent, as if she'd learned the language by spell. The masculine voice still sounded odd in her ears, though she'd been wearing the glamour for nearly a day.

The wizard grunted and shook his head. "Yeah, through the back. Put the book down unless you're going to buy it." Arcana complied and headed to the back of the store. "Enjoy the sights before you find yourself dead," he called out to Arcana's back and then muttered, "Bah, kids and curses."

The back door was squeezed between two shelves of mildewed magical books. A faint haze of Dark magic clung to them that made Arcana's nose itch, though it might have just been the dust. The suspiciously rust-colored substance staining the floorboards in front of the door lent credence to her first theory. Arcana scowled at the old blood and stepped over it. After checking the door for curses she cautiously opened it and stepped into the Dark shadow of the Muggle city visible out the front of the store.

Tall buildings rose on either side of the cobblestone street, painted in murky greys and crowned with green-tiled roofs. Runes of warding ran over lintels and under windows, and conspicuous witches and wizards loitered around certain closed doors – hired hit-wizards or worse.

Arcana felt eyes track her every movement as she drew her holly wand and removed the transfiguration spells from her clothes, turning the coat back into a nicely tailored robe and then shrinking the umbrella and stuck it into a pocket. She cast a shield above her head to keep off the sad drizzle with a flick of her wrist and then poked the wand into a sheath on her left forearm so it would be fast to draw. Her other wand was stashed in a safely hidden pocket, just in case. Arcana headed west down Ridgeback Lane and smiled when a short wizard peeled away from a wall and followed.

"Get your Muggle Repellent, Inferi Off, and Golem Be Gone!" called a mangy-looking witch. Her cart of small bottles and packages rattled as she directed it to roll down the cobblestone street with her wand. "Fresh wolfsbane, five sickles a bunch. Full moon in three night's time!"

Branching off of the main street were numerous dark alleys. Things moved in their shadows, and there was a taste of death in the air that made the more squeamish witches and wizards congregate along the middle of Ridgeback Lane where a row of gloomy benches ran, broken here and there by grim statues and merchants hawking amulets and potions that were illegal in Britain.

Powerful wards permeated the air, making Arcana itch to be elsewhere. She looked into the magic, and the energy tingled under her skin like a horde of buzzing doxies. There would be no breaking the anti-Apparition spells here. They had been in place for centuries. Passing under an arch across the street, Arcana felt a distinct shift in the ambient magic. A different family controlled this district. With the shift in the wards came the faint odor of the undead. Inferi had been stashed somewhere nearby, likely in a basement as the scent – more magic than true smell – seemed strongest by the sunken windows. Disgusting . . . things.

An owl swooped overhead, landing with a screech on the shoulder of an imposing wizard guarding one of the many ironclad doors lining the street. Something on his wrist jangled when he reached up to pull the letter from the owl's leg, and Arcana felt his gaze on her back when she passed by. Her hands tingled with raw magic, but she squashed it down. She stopped at a newsstand and bought a copy of the local wizarding paper, using the time it took to dig out a couple Knuts to scan for the watchwizard. He hadn't followed, but the one from outside the bookstore was skulking nearby, failing to look interested in the bottle he was holding.

Arcana shrunk the paper and kept walking, taking the time to weave through a crowd, just to irritate the wizard following her tracks. She broke through the throng of robes and strode right past the side street that would take her to the Raskovic family's district. The Dark Lord had warned her not to contact them directly, and when Arcana had offered a rather rude reply he'd repaid it with an inventive curse. It had taken her the better part of an hour to speak a sentence without adding several unnecessary honorifics against her will. While Arcana had been forced to express her hatred through glares alone, the Dark Lord smiled and told her about a wizard that spied for the Raskovic family who would fold if she mentioned the Dark Lord. Soon she'd find out if he was right.

In the center of a crossroads stood a large wrought iron – tainted iron – pole that was hung with numerous signs. Arcana side-stepped a witch wrestling with a basket of kneezle kittens that all clambered to look at her, mewling. They had the inconvenient ability to see what most wizards could not. Arcana ignored the squinty glare of the kneezle-bearing witch, scanned the signs on the pole and then turned left, passing under another arch and into yet another wizarding family's territory. The buildings were worn, if well-fortified, and the shadows deeper than they should have been. The air rippled here and there doors, passages, or entire houses were concealed. Hexes, jinxes, and curses were woven into the stones under Arcana's feet, and with magic like that she was unsurprised to sense a distinct lack of Inferi.

Ulanov and Kashtic's Bone Emporium was just where the Dark Lord's maps had indicated, and Arcana pushed open the door, hiding a scowl at the unpleasant feeling of the tainted iron under her gloved hand. The wizard that had been following her since she left the bookstore stopped and lurked outside.

The store was full of bones – bones on shelves, bones in baskets, bones stacked up in piles on the floor. Arcana strode past a rack of human skulls, each labeled witch, wizard, or Muggle, along with additional details. A shelf lined with jars of snake vertebrae and fangs was looking particularly dusty, sparking a mad desire to write a message in the grime. By the shelf there was a basket full of various house-elf bones with one skull propped on top, its empty sockets staring at nothing. Black hate for the murderous wizards responsible churned within Arcana, making magic crackle dangerously under her skin. She forced her gaze elsewhere to banish the idea of Shelly meeting the same fate.

There was a unicorn skull, complete with horn, mounted high on the wall. The sign below read FOR HEALING SPELLS ONLY: INQUIRE FOR RENTAL, NOT FOR SALE. It had died naturally. Arcana's gaze drifted upward and she stared, entranced by the soft white magic flowing around the skull. There was nothing natural about a mortal unicorn.

An old wizard oozed out from behind a shelf, startling Arcana. She snapped out of her trance and formed a curse in her mind, sensing the wizard's hand was already on his wand.

"Looking for something . . . special, young man?" Arcana turned around and looked down on the wizard. That in itself was a novel experience. The slight widening of his eyes was even more enjoyable. He must be Ulanov. She had heard that Kashtic was considerably younger, and a witch.

"I suppose you could say that. More of a someone, actually," she said, letting her Bulgarian sound spell-learned again. "Boris Raskovic."

"This district is under the protection of the Vladich family. We have nothing to do with that Mudblood scum."

"Of course," Arcana said with that edge of cold sarcasm she often heard in the Dark Lord's voice. "I'm sure my message will reach the right ears all the same."

"You are a very stupid wizard, mister . . . "

Arcana just smiled one of the Dark Lord's dangerous smiles.

"Names are fickle things, and mine is unimportant, Mr. Ulanov. I'll be back tomorrow morning." Arcana turned her back on the wizard and left the store. That had been fun. By his reaction she was sure that Ulanov had seen the Dark Lord when he had visited Prague some decades ago, leaving a trail of corpses in his wake. If the Dark Lord was right about Ulanov being a spy, the Raskovic family would be notified by nightfall. Arcana allowed herself a soft chuckle as the shop's door swung shut behind her.

The wizard that had followed Arcana was still waiting, reading a copy of the same newspaper she had bought. He followed her, nonchalant as could be, as if that would make his spying inconspicuous. Arcana stepped around a corner and into a throng of cloaks and pointy hats, weaving around them until she could slip behind a statue. By the time her pursuer had caught up there was no Riddle look-a-like to follow. It was a tricky bit of magic to fool enough minds while switching glamours, but crowds made a surprisingly good cover for that. Dizzy from pulling on too much magic, Arcana leaned against a bench and fingered several poorly-made talismans hanging from a cart. Before the seller could accost her about purchasing one of the worthless things, Arcana regained her bearings and strode off, wearing the appearance of a middle-aged witch, her stomach starting to rumble. She'd lost track of the day while crossing the Continent and it was time for dinner. The wizarding Orloj bonged out the hour in agreement.

The Reveling Runespoor Inn was crowded despite the small mountain of Galleons it cost to book a cramped room with a rickety bed, but it was the safest place to stay in Prague for travelers lacking the patronage of one of the old families. Arcana had booked a room with the innkeeper, speaking in fluent Bulgarian, and looking like she could have grown up in the nearby mountains. The pub on the ground floor was friendlier than expected, though Arcana guessed it was due to subtle charms and illusions rather than true camaraderie. All the same, it was the best she could do, and at least the cider was better than it had been the last time she'd visited Prague . . .

* * *

The Boggart and Bowtruckle tavern was gloomy even though the sun hadn't quite set. Witches, wizards, and a few magical creatures were scattered about, hunkered over drinks or smoking long-stemmed pipes. Arcana sat at the bar, listening to the wooden beams across the ceiling creak as someone upstairs paced back and forth, the magical weight of thee human souls hanging heavily in an inner pocket of her robes. A witch stomped out from behind the bar, glared at the ceiling while muttering about giant blood, and then started lighting floating candles to ward off the night.

Arcana gripped the pewter mug with gnarled hands as soon as it was shoved in front of her, and the bartender snatched up the five Knuts she had set down. She was starving after hunting and avoiding unwanted attention all day, and she was most certainly not going to meet with her client on an empty stomach. That witch could throw enough Dark magic to crack one of the Muggle bridges that crossed the river Vltava. "Two Galleons, seven Sickles for room and board," the bartender grunted.

"Just the meal," Arcana replied in gruff Bulgarian. The wizard snorted and shook his head.

"Fifteen Sickles then." He leaned over Arcana and pointed across the room to a wizard in dark red robes with short salt and pepper hair. "You'll be wanting to order a coffin too before you go." The bartender scribbled something down on a scrap of parchment and sent it flying off to the kitchen with a flick of his wand. "You'll get a good deal. Hasn't got much business since Grindelwald fell." Arcana made a noncommittal noise, knowing that if her cursed life ended that night, whatever was left of her body would never be put to the ground.

A drunken hag waved at the bartender for another cup of brew, and he trudged off, leaving Arcana in peace.

Arcana raised the mug and cautiously sniffed the cider, casting a silent revealing spell to detect poison. The cider was clean, though bland, she discovered after taking a sip. From her spot at the end of the bar, Arcana had a clear view of the front door and most of the room. The one table behind her was empty and would likely remain that way given the glares she shot anyone who meandered in that direction. An ugly glamour did come with certain benefits. The meal came floating from the kitchen on a wooden tray, and landed on the bar in front of Arcana with a thud. She cast the revealing spell again, and was confident that the stew, bread, and cheese were clean as well. Fortunately the kitchen hadn't used tainted iron cookware either. Arcana dunked the bread in the stew and ate, her eyes drifting over the room for any suspicious activity.

The door of the tavern creaked open and a wizard walked in, pulling his hood back from his face. Customers sneered or stealthily tracked his steps, and Arcana evaluated him with a glance – English, brash, young, powerful, and soon likely to be very dead. He strode across the floor and through the door to the back room at Arcana's left without looking her way once. Yes, he'd soon be very dead, or perhaps undead. She chuckled softly and went back to her meal.

* * *

. . . It was a pity Arcana could no longer chuckle about the wizard who became the Dark Lord. At least better lodging had appeared in Prague since her last visit. A plate landed in front of her, and her stomach rumbled insistently. It certainly took more effort to hold a glamour now than it did back in those days, but that would soon change. The vaults of Alexandria would enlighten her about the mysteries of blood magic sufficiently that she could defeat the Dark Lord and get that power back. She did not dare think otherwise.

Arcana stabbed at her dinner with her fork and scowled, wishing that the cloaked wizard limping through the front door was the man born Tom Riddle so she could stab him instead. Not that the half-blood bastard back in Britain could really be called a man any longer. Whatever was inside that nightmarish shell of a body, little of it was human.

Before she had been branded with his crass Mark, she had taunted the Dark Lord about having seen him in his more human days – she had recognized his magical signature from that brief tavern encounter. It had irked him to no end, and it had taken him months and a string of cruel hints before he had picked out the time and place to which Arcana had referred. That had been a fun game, almost as entertaining as thwarting the Dark Lord's attempts at Legilimency. The Dark Mark hummed softly under her skin as it had been doing from time to time since she left Britain. Arcana impaled an innocent carrot on her fork. He was watching, and the games were no longer amusing.

Arcana locked the door to her small room and checked the wards that the innkeeper had set before adding several of her own. Night had descended, and with low clouds blotting out both moon and stars, the only light seeping through the heavy curtains came from the street lamps. Arcana pulled the curtain aside and peered out the window. The rain had turned to snow, much to the irritation of an invisible someone who was leaving stark footprints in the white dusting on the street. Some things never changed.

Come morning, the snow on the street had turned to slush, and an ugly mix of rain and snow fell from the sky. A damp cold seeped through the curtains like a curse, and Arcana had no desire to leave her bed, uncomfortable as it was. The floorboards outside her room creaked as some equally grumpy wizard stomped down the hallway. Arcana scratched at her head, annoyed with the texture of her glamoured hair, and checked her wards one more time. Last night she had thrown a robe over the one mirror in the room and cast a host of muffling and privacy spells. The thing'd had the nerve to give her fashion advice as soon as she'd opened the door. Assured of her solitude, Arcana dropped the glamour and properly dealt with the mess that was her hair.

* * *

Arcana walked out of an alley in midmorning, once again wearing her young Riddle guise, and quickly attracted attention as she strode purposefully to the Bone Emporium on long legs, her boots squishing along the slushy street. When she pushed open the shop door, Ulanov abruptly stopped speaking to the younger of the two witches at his side and scowled deeply. The younger witch glared at Ulanov and snapped shut a thick ledger with the shop crest on the cover, clearly displeased with the disruption. She had to be Kashtic. Matching her caustic reaction was an older witch, whose grey hair frizzed out from under her pointy hat. The taint on her magic stank of the undead, and she looked like she'd rather be dining with her Inferi than standing by associates of the Vladich family.

Arcana stepped inside, smiling one of the Dark Lord's cold smiles. Humans were so predictable.

The elder witch bid Arcana follow her into another room, and Arcana complied, having to stoop slightly through the low doorway. The only thing in the room was a warded metal case restraining what felt like lethal curses.

The witch looked Arcana over with a critical eye, as if waiting for some mysterious signal, and Arcana nodded her head politely in response. The witch pressed her lips together, disgruntled, her left hand pressing briefly against the outside of a pocket.

"The Raskovic family has no love for your cause, mister . . ?" said the witch, jumping straight to the point. Her left hand twitched, as if she had just stopped herself from reaching for whatever she had checked before. Arcana suppressed her magic before it pooled in her hands. If she wasn't careful it might shatter the glamour.

"I suppose that is no surprise given the destruction the Dark Lord left in his wake the last time he visited your city," Arcana replied in the glamour's masculine voice, ignoring the implied question about her name. "He is prepared to negotiate on a subject of mutual interest, but only with Boris Raskovic."

"The family scion is very busy, as I imagine you understand, being in a similar position."

The Raskovics were well aware that they really had no choice in the matter since the Dark Lord would eventually get what he wanted. Though it would be satisfying to point this out, it wouldn't be the most diplomatic response, and spewing politic words was what the Dark Lord was paying her to do with gold and time.

"The Raskovic family will look back with regret if they let this opportunity slip by because of a scheduling conflict," Arcana said, again brushing off the witch's insinuations.

The witch's face twisted into an ugly expression, her fingers clenching around whatever was in her pocket.

"It's already decided. Tomorrow at midnight." She spoke as if the words were poison. "Go to the Raskovic District, take Fer Alley, and if you are worthy you will have the honor of meeting Boris Raskovic."

Before Arcana could respond, the witch spun on her heel and swished out of the shop in a swirl of heavy robes, letting the door slam shut. From the storefront came the creak of leather when Kashtic cracked open the ledger again, and the store owners resumed their heated discussion, perhaps hoping that if they ignored the foreign wizard in the back room, he would just go away.

Arcana rubbed her clawless index finger against her thumb to distract herself from the dissonant buzz of magic in her mind. Yes, she had expected the Raskovics to respond, and yes, it had gone according to plan, but given her luck that meant it had been far too easy.

* * *

The Reveling Runespoor's pub was crowded that night, and the rooms above were full. Outside, the wind howled like a banshee, and sleet beat upon the shuttered windows. It was a miserable night, and not even the north wind could tempt Arcana to leave the inn. She was already on her third mug of steaming cider.

A raucous drinking game at a large table in the middle of the room drowned out all other conversations. The Wizarding Wireless was blaring out the news, and the table full of witches and wizards was avidly listening. The broadcaster mentioned dementors, and everyone took a shot, laughing heartily. A good third of the patrons around the table were imbibing the house special, a foul smelling, smoking brew that Arcana thought looked positively poisonous. The words "Ferril's Bane" spewed forth from the Wizarding Wireless and everyone around the table took two gulps of their drinks.

Arcana had claimed a spot at the bar where she had a clear view of the front door and the stairs up to the second floor. There was a loud cheer from the center table and everyone took another shot. One grizzled witch that had been drinking the house special tipped back a bit too far, and only a lucky wave of the barkeep's wand kept her chair balancing precariously on one leg. The witch's head lolled forward, and her chair fell back onto four feet. The wizard at her side took away her mug just before the witch's head hit the table with a sound thunk.

One wall of the pub was dedicated to the Bulgarian Quidditch star Victor Krum, complete with a snitch hovering in a glass box and a grumpy photograph of Krum glaring down at it. The collection of memorabilia had become so vast that the self-updating board listing Krum's achievements was relegated to a sorry place above a tall window. Two werewolves sat at a battered table under that window, leaning toward each other, whispering conspiratorially. Arcana tuned out the drinking game, and their words became clear.

"No one just steps out of thin air. Not here!" the first werewolf whispered. He raked his hand through his dark hair and then took a swig from his smoking mug. "No Apparition, no Portkeys. Nothing!"

"Disillusionment," a second werewolf grunted. One of his feet was tapping a relentless rhythm, as if all of his nervous energy was being channeled into that movement.

"Can't be." The dark-haired werewolf patted something under his shirt. "Raskovic's talisman was dead quiet."

"You've heard the rumors. If anyone could do it, You-Know-Who could, and well, perhaps he passed it on."

"Oh quit with this 'You-Know-Who' business. He couldn't stand against the Enclave. No one could stand against that kind of firepower, not even that Dumbledore, and he took down Grindelwald! And besides, Vold . . . er, he'd use a family name if he had one."

The second werewolf snorted. "See, you can't say it either. He's a Slytherin! He's the heir."

"That's what they say. Rather convenient, especially when no one's seen hide nor hair of that family in ages. They're all dead, if you ask me." He snarled and gouged a new hole in the table with an untrimmed nail. They were nearly claws due to the waxing moon. "None of this fixes our problem. We lost the wizard again. She'll have our hides for it!"

Arcana's dinner landed in front of her on the bar, and she scowled at the mound of pickled cabbage, scooting it off the more edible potatoes underneath with a fork. She sniffed at the soup and recoiled. The kitchen had at least one tainted iron cauldron. Arcana's stomach rumbled, and she started in on the potatoes.

The front door swung open and a tall woman stalked in, her brown mane wild from the storm. Another werewolf. She pulled off her cloak and threw it at the two werewolves at the table. The dark-haired one caught it, keeping his eyes averted. The woman came up to the bar beside Arcana.

"Marko, dinner!"

There was a shaky affirmative from the kitchen, and the woman claimed the stool next to Arcana and started drumming her fingers on the bar, her long nails clacking. Arcana took a swig of her cider as an excuse to set the mug down further away from the newcomer. The werewolf sniffed the air and then turned her head. Arcana met her amber eyes and then slid the dark glasses back up her nose.

"You smell like the storm." There was a growl beneath the werewolf's words.

"It _is_ storming." Arcana nodded toward the window.

"No, it's inside you." The werewolf's pupils dilated, and she leaned closer, nostrils flaring. Magic flooded to Arcana's hands, and she reined in the instinct.

"Dinner, Lady Svetozar, just the way you like it," the barkeep said, holding out a tray with a plate of bloody meat and a tankard of lager. "Please try to leave my other customers alone."

Svetozar's lip curled, revealing teeth that belonged in a wolf's mouth, then took the tray and went to join the other werewolves.

Arcana took a deep breath and drew her hands into her lap to rub away the tingling of raw magic that had pooled in them. She went back to her dinner and finished the edible parts quickly, throwing a few Knuts on the tray before retiring to her room. Glamours were least effective at fooling scent, and werewolves had a keen sense of smell near the full moon. It was fortunate that Riddle had made his last appearance because he'd smell like the storm as well. Back downstairs a chair crashed to the floor, followed by a round of swearing and canine whining. Arcana silently slipped down the hall and unlocked her door, grateful that the werewolves were oblivious that the one they sought was so very near.

* * *

Morning found Arcana back downstairs in the pub, slouched in the chair closest to the blazing hearth. It was cold. Through the window she watched a team of wizards de-icing the street, their wands practically engulfed in heavy mittens. She imagined the Dark Lord frozen stiff in the empty chair next to her. He'd set the whole inn on fire to get warm if necessary. The barkeep Marko brought over breakfast for Arcana, and waved his wand, making a floating teapot refill her empty cup. She tore straight into the toast and cheese. Holding glamours for days on end always made her hungry unless she could pull on the ambient magic of the land, and Prague wasn't feeling cooperative in that regard.

Unwilling to leave the fire after finishing breakfast, Arcana fished the newspaper she had bought out of a pocket and enlarged it back to normal size, remembering to use her wand just in time. The last thing she needed was to be stared at for feats of wandless magic. The Wizarding Wireless whirred to life in the middle of the Quidditch report. Krum had apparently saved the day again, catching the Snitch only moments before the Quaffle sailed through the goal, which would have spelled victory for the Irking Erklings, a Danish team. The front page of the paper was dedicated to a plague of vampire attacks in Albania, and there was a large article on the dangers that Ferril's Bane posed to the stability of the wizarding community. Durmstrang was seeing its fair share of violence as well, with the student population fractured into pureblood and mixed blood factions.

As the Wizarding Wireless began blaring "Ode to Organon," Arcana forgot to how to swallow mid-sip and coughed, splattering the paper with droplets of tea.

_**Cumanus: Archivist Abandons Archive**_

_Noted demonologist Isabella Cumanus vanished from the Great Wizarding Library of Alexandria on Tuesday, prompting a full-scale search of the library, the city, and beyond. Head Curator Lisimba Anatole Husaline believes it unlikely that Cumanus, reportedly a most formidable witch, was abducted. Whether true or not, Cumanus's whereabouts remain unknown._

Arcana swore and scanned through the paper, but there was nothing else. Cumanus had taken sanctuary in the Library years ago after being banished from the Summoners' Guild, and the crone had hardly left her Archive since, burying her hatred in the collection of demonic tomes. Arcana read the article again, wishing the words to change, willing them to say Cumanus had stolen any of those precious books at the very least. The article slid down the page and around the Quidditch stats, trying to escape her scrutiny.

Raw magic tingled in her hands, threatening to crackle between her fingers. She shrunk the paper, stuck it in a pocket, and stomped back up the stairs to her room. Arcana's instincts screamed for her to abandon Prague and chase down Cumanus before the witch said anything that could bring a horde of demons down on Arcana's head. Last autumn in Alexandria, Cumanus had boldly declared that Arcana, or rather the glamour of Muirgheal, had fae blood. That had led to a round of double blackmailing in which Cumanus told Arcana enough about the demon the Dark Lord wanted to summon that they'd managed to do just that, though not painlessly.

Arcana rubbed at the scars Xhal Thos had left on her neck, hoping she was imagining the faint laughter that seemed to emanate from a dark corner of her mind. The summoning had gone as wrong as it could have without killing them both, so it was no surprise that the matter with Cumanus was imploding as well. Arcana snarled and threw open the door to her room. The bloody witch could have at least had better timing. Instead of going to Alexandria after this foolish business playing emissary for a half-blood, hardly human bastard of a wizard, Arcana needed to run off and cut that loose thread before it unraveled her life.

Cumanus had fled Alexandria on Tuesday, and it was Thursday now, which Arcana figured only gave her a day or two to intercept the witch. Cumanus could not reach the Guild. If she did, the Guildmaster's bound demon would be at Arcana's throat as soon as the sun set. She shivered despite the fire. Arcana's worry that her choice to strut around Prague looking like the Dark Lord's heir had attracted too much attention evaporated in the bleak light of this new fear. If all went well she would be on the road before dawn tomorrow.

After thoroughly checking the wards around her room, Arcana sat down on the rickety bed and took a deep breath. The second skin of the glamour vanished. Perhaps she should have done this yesterday, but her hatred of the act had made her procrastinate until the last minute. Arcana pulled off her gloves and rolled up her left sleeve, giving her Dark Mark a good glare before pressing her index finger to the middle of the brand. It burned as she reached into her link with the Dark Lord. Arcana felt his attention turn to her, and the red-black serpent hissed in her mind.

_My fae._

Arcana shuddered as the words ghosted through her head.

_I have made contact. Boris Raskovic is set to meet with your emissary tonight, midnight, in the Raskovic District of Prague, down Fer Alley._

There was a hissing, murmuring sensation in Arcana's mind.

_Ah, yes, I see. You have been fortunate. Your lord will arrive shortly after midnight, my emissary. Do not be late. I want Boris and his lackeys distracted. Can you manage this?_

_Of course, my lord._

_Continue as you were. Do not draw attention to yourself until necessary._

_As you wish, my lord._

Hissing echoed through Arcana's head, and the Dark Lord's presence slipped away, jarring Arcana back to physical reality. She swore, one of those nasty fae oaths, and shook her left arm. The brand was red and irritated. Bloody crass wizard magic.

Pity it was so effective.

* * *

**Next:** "Golem Be Gone." Wherein nothing goes according to plan, and our favorite Dark wizard springs an ugly surprise . . .

Methyl will now skitter away to edit chapter 5.

If you haven't gotten enough Methylethyldeth yet, she also resides on livejournal, where she posts regularly on a variety of topics. She doesn't bite visitors . . . often. :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Original elements (characters, locations, plot, etc.) are property of Methylethyldeth.

**Chapter Summary: **Arcana had made a deal with the Dark Lord to find Boris Raskovic in Prague and is now bound to see it through, but she's on edge from the unfriendly ambient magic her need to hunt down a demon summoner who threatens her immortal existence.

**Author Notes:** Methyl once again crawls out from under her mossy rock, clutching her ever-present cup of tea and offering a long, long, long, long, long overdue update. This chapter was a royal pain and had to be torn apart so many times that the commas bred like pixies when Methyl wasn't looking. Many thanks to the beta astraia_ourania, who looked over this chapter twice because Methyl just had to do some serious fixing after her first edit. Hopefully it was worth the super extra long wait.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Illusions of Choice **

**Chapter 5: Golem Be Gone**

Hidden under the glamour of a weathered witch, Arcana hustled down the street with her hood up and her head bowed against the freezing rain. All she could think about was how soon Isabella Cumanus would take information about Arcana to the Summoners' Guild to get her banishment rescinded, and how no matter how badly Arcana wanted to find the witch first, she was stuck in Prague until she led the Dark Lord to Boris Raskovic at midnight. Why was it always midnight anyway? There was nothing wrong with midday, especially in Prague. Dark magic worked just as well with the sun up. Arcana walked faster, but her restlessness wouldn't abate. She couldn't hunt down the witch yet, but she could find a way to track her prey.

The hawkers and their carts that had crowded the streets of wizarding Prague yesterday were gone, leaving the city eerily empty. Arcana grumbled and gingerly stepped over some particularly slick cobblestones, thankful her ankle had healed from when Xhal Thos had broken it from within her dream.

The demon's deep voice rumbled under her thoughts followed by the feeling of its teeth tearing into her throat, vivid as it had been on that Solstice night. Her feet slid out from under her, and she shrieked, arms flailing, barely catching her balance. Heart pounding in anticipation of the demon's laughter, she planted her feet firmly on the street and looked within, but found only her own thoughts.

Arcana kept a straight face when her Dark Mark warmed and sent tingles running up her arm. It fell silent as the Dark Lord's attention turned elsewhere. She shook her cloak to break the ice that had frozen on it, realizing that she should have renewed its water-repelling charm years ago. Pausing to peer through a foggy shop window, Arcana once more prodded the dark corner of her mind where Xhal Thos had lingered, but there were only her own familiar shadows. Maybe the demon's voice had just been her imagination, maybe the Dark Lord checking up on her had been a coincidence, and maybe, if she tried harder, she could convince herself those lies were the truth.

A cold gust whipped up the freezing rain to sting Arcana's face, making her tug her hood lower and mutter a spell. Drops steamed as they hit her magic instead of her skin. She hoped the Dark Lord arrived unprepared for the foul weather, if only so she could enjoy a spot of silent mirth at his expense without having his wand turned on her afterwards. He kept a hefty warming charm on his robes, so it wasn't as if his wizardy bits would freeze off. Pity.

A brass sign squeaked as it swung in the wind, and Arcana squinted over her dark glasses to read the words obscured by a thick layer of ice. Ducking around the vicious icicles hanging from the sign, she pushed open the door and peeled her hood back. Bits of ice clattered to the hardwood floor and crunched under her boots as the door swung shut with a bang, startling the young witch sitting behind the counter. Her bow screeched across the strings of the fiddle she was tuning, and she froze for moment before carefully setting down the instrument.

"Only fit for doxies," she scoffed, plucking a string with her finger and sneaking her other hand under the counter.

"They'd choke on the cursed wood," Arcana replied.

The young witch smiled slyly, deliberately lifting the wand she'd retrieved. "You can hear it on the lowest string, yes. Good ear you've got. It's for sale, you know."

Arcana nodded. She could not only hear it but also see it, taste it, and feel it, but not as well as if she had been in Britain.

"I'm not in the market for fiddles, cursed or otherwise. I'm looking for a compass."

"Oh, well, they're over here. I'm Dusana Sarac, by the way. I haven't seen you around before. Moving to the city?" Sarac led Arcana to a glass case, casually slipping her wand into her sleeve.

"Maybe," Arcana replied. Sarac gave a snort of irritation at Arcana's ambiguous answer.

"Wasn't expecting anyone today with the weather and the full moon. It's dark enough that the bloodsuckers will be out early." Scowling now, she unlocked a glass case full of compasses.

"Yes, best to be inside before dusk," Arcana agreed. Her dark glasses slid down her nose as she leaned forward. Most of the compasses were already enchanted, their delicate needles whirling around slowly rotating dials that stopped occasionally to point at some obscure symbol. Sarac pulled out several, but Arcana shook her head at each.

"And this one was based on the Orloj. The wizarding one of course, not that silly Muggle contraption." Sarac presented the highly decorated compass to Arcana.

"Yes, splendid workmanship, but not what I need." Arcana pointed to a simple, un-enchanted compass the back. "But that'll do nicely."

"This one's rather dull," Sarac said, reluctantly handing it to Arcana.

The compass was solid in her hand, and empty of magic. "Perfect."

Sarac looked put out, clearly hoping for a better sale, but took Arcana's gold all the same.

"If you don't mind . . . well, what do you need it for?"

Arcana pushed her glasses back up her nose and smiled. Sarac stepped back, her hand inching toward her wand.

"I've lost something, of course."

* * *

Back in her room at the inn, Arcana cast extra wards and dropped her glamour. The second skin slid off her body, and wisps of white hair fell into her face to tickle her nose. She pulled off the now ill-fitting robes, threw them onto the bed, and tucked her hair behind her ears. It did not stay there for long, and she attempted to blow it out of her eyes only to have it fall back over them again. Muttering a curse that would have made Shelly blush, Arcana unbuckled her belt and reached elbow-deep into the pouch hanging there, rummaging around until she found the trunk she had shrunk. If she was going to be outside after sunset, it wouldn't be without her armor.

Arcana missed Shelly's help in donning her heavy hunting garb, and missed the house-elf's cooking even more. Food was never really filling nor settled in her stomach without magical ingredients that were sorely lacking in both Muggle and wizarding cuisine. Arcana secured both of her wands on her person, and then sat on the creaky bed to envision the glamour she would cast.

It was significantly more difficult to cast a glamour disguising both skin andclothing, even when the latter was not as saturated with protective magic as her hunting gear, and despite her skill the illusion would not hold up to thorough examination. The bed creaked when she sat down to cast the glamour, and she breathed evenly through the dizzy spell that followed. After the magic had settled, Arcana's stomach rumbled. She methodically removed all of the wards she had cast over the room and pulled the old robe off of the mirror.

"Oh, that's better!" the mirror said. "Well, I didn't think it possible, but you look even worse now, dear. Been casting Dark spells all day? You should really see a specialist about your skin. Magic takes its toll, but a witch—"

Arcana slammed the room door shut and went downstairs, intent on sating her hunger, but found Svetozar nursing a smoking tankard in Arcana's spot at the bar. The werewolf's wild hair was pulled back, revealing a heavy earring fastened to her right ear that sang with Dark magic. Svetozar turned her feral gaze on Arcana, and her nose twitched. The innkeeper Marko hastened from the kitchen, pretending not to notice the werewolf's unhealthy interest in Arcana.

"Can I get you lunch?"

"No, I've things to get done before nightfall." Arcana ignored her protesting stomach and handed him the room key, plus a generous tip. He pocketed both.

* * *

The Orloj bonged an ominous note as night fell over Prague. Doors slammed shut and wards sprang up, locking all good witches and wizards behind thick walls until the sun rose. Of course, Prague being Prague, the term "good" was likely an exaggeration. Vampire dens rose to life, their legal blood donors on display behind cursed windows. Deceptively innocuous music drifted out into the streets where the night folk had begun prowling in earnest, and when the moon rose the howling began. It was illegal for transformed werewolves to roam the streets of Prague, but sprigs of wolfsbane still adorned all open doors and the belts of the few daring Dark witches and wizards outside. Vampires had little to fear once the sun went down.

Arcana sheltered in the relative safety of a divination salon, shunning all company after paying the cover charge. She listlessly played with a set of house runes, reading them five ways each throw, glimpsing useless snapshots of potential futures that faded instantly from her mind's eye. Growing restless, she shoved them away and studied her compass. It was too dangerous to enchant it in Prague, and Cumanus was too far away for her spell to take anyway. Besides, there was only one place the witch would go, and Arcana had enough to worry about without seeing that little brass needle spin to the southwest.

As soon as she got the Dark Lord and Boris Raskovic in one place, she would go hunting. Anticipating the thrill of the chase quickened her breath and brought her magic humming under her skin. If Cumanus reached the Summoners' Guild before Arcana dispatched her, nightmares of a slow death by a demon's hand – almost certainly Xhal Thos's – would become reality.

A Seer seated one table over shuffled his cards, drew three, and halted. The next he pulled out with a shaking hand, eyes darting around the dark room.

"You better not be playing the old creepy gypsy game with me," said the Dark witch across from the Seer. "I paid for a reading, not theatrics."

"No, no," the Seer muttered, collecting the cards and shuffling them again. "The table must have contaminated the cards. It was nonsense, or the reflection of a soul I would not be for all the world."

The witch snorted. "Save the act for the tourists."

"You mean the blood snacks, I take it," he said, failing to completely cover his disquiet.

The witch snickered.

Arcana pocketed the compass and slipped out of the salon before the stain of her magical signature spread further. Sharp eyes darted her way from under hoods and hats, and fingers ran over wands even before her back was turned. She clung to the most populous streets, wandlessly countering the occasional curse and hexing one wizard who tossed a foul smelling rag in her face that would have dropped her into a stupor had she been human. He was now slightly less of a wizard and slightly more of a flobberworm, for the betterment of all humankind. Not that she cared about the last part.

The number of living in the streets thinned as Arcana neared the Raskovic District where Inferi lurked in the darkest corners, their stench alerting her when the ambient magic became too thick for Arcana's senses to penetrate. Claws scratched against the cobblestones behind Arcana, and she spun around, wand raised, as a feral kneazle darted into the shadows with a rat in its mouth. She took a calming breath and did her best to ground her magic. The land slipped away from her magic like an oily sludge under her feet, and a dissonant host of nasty wards buzzed louder in her head.

A choir of werewolves howled at the moon, and a flock of bats swooped by at roof level, swarming into the windows of a tower and scolding the world with their screeches. The sky was clear now, and the stars beckoned to Arcana with voiceless whispers. She looked away and the calling ceased.

When the Orloj announced a quarter to midnight, Arcana dropped her tremulous glamour and stepped into the shadows.

The weight of the darkness settled onto her shoulders in a fashion that was not quite natural. The buildings along the narrow alley towered over Arcana, blocking out all but the smallest sliver of the night sky. Talismans were embedded in the walls, and wards, charms, and curses were layered so thickly that it made the air feel strangely viscous. Arcana cast a subtle illusion to disguise her face, her instincts ringing with warning as the spell knitted together more slowly than it should. Everything shimmered at the edge of her perception, and she suddenly knew she could not trust even her second sight to be accurate.

Someone was waiting at the corner of Fer Alley. His chin jerked up as Arcana approached, and his head lolled to the side, as if the owner no longer had full control over his muscles. Rotten magic and rotten flesh. Inferus. Arcana's hand flashed to her sleeve to draw her holly wand as a half dozen more Inferi stepped around the corner and lumbered toward her, moving faster than one unfamiliar with the undead would expect.

"I am the Dark Lord's emissary, and you will let me pass," Arcana announced. Someone had to be nearby to control the Inferi.

The elder witch Arcana had spoken with at Ulanov and Kashtic's Emporium materialized from the shadows, and Arcana's breath caught in her throat. She should have been able to sense the witch. Damn the city to the fate of the undead it cursed.

"Emissary? I think not. The Enclave only accepts official ambassadors. Using outdated magic makes your upstart _lord_ look more the fool." The witch pulled a talisman from her pocket, frowned, and then put it back. "Where's the wizard's bastard son? He's expected. Not you, girl."

Arcana pulled on the ambient magic to assert her rightful authority, but it fizzled and slipped away like murky sludge. She knew this whole Prague thing had been a bad idea. Riddle was not going to show up, and if the witch did not verbally confirm Arcana's status as emissary, she'd have no magical protection.

"I am the Dark Lord's emissary, and Boris Raskovic will speak with me. Those are the Dark Lord's orders."

"We don't take orders from your lord. Go!" The witch waved her wand, and the Inferi lurched towards Arcana.

Wards ripped like the crack of a whip an inch from Arcana's skin, and a werewolf appeared, crouching next to the witch in a doorway that had not been there before. An earring gleamed from the shewolf's red-brown fur. Svetozar sniffed the air and stared down Arcana with amber eyes, growling in recognition. She had sent her hounds after the Riddle glamour on Raskovic's orders, but Riddle had vanished without explanation, and she had caught Arcana's scent while wearing another face. The pieces clicked into place behind Svetozar's eyes, and Arcana knew the werewolf realized that Riddle's face had been false as well. With that information it wouldn't take the Raskovics long to work out the puzzle of how Arcana had done it, if Svetozar didn't already guess she was fae.

Raw magic pooled in Arcana's hands, and she fought to control the instinct the wield it. There were too many witnesses. She gripped her wand tightly.

"You were not invited, witch, and there is no trespassing on Raskovic lands."

The Inferi staggered closer.

"Prague would not be Prague without a few magical explosions," Arcana softly parroted the Dark Lord's words. She was done with wizarding politics for the night, deal be damned. He could find Boris Raskovic by himself.

Arcana slashed her wand through the air and ignited a curse amidst the Inferi. Flames roared up to the rooftops, forcing the witch and the werewolf to duck into the doorway as fire engulfed the narrow street. Arcana turned her head away from the searing heat, the brim of her hat shading her eyes from the blinding light. Smouldering chunks of undead flesh spattered everywhere, the fire fading when its work was done. Arcana smiled tightly. It was the only sure way to destroy the abominations.

The witch raised her wand, and Svetozar howled. Arcana started running.

Space ripped apart, and two cloaked wizards sprang forth at Arcana's right, sending curses flying, stalling her escape back down the alley. She dodged, blocked, and flung the spells back to their casters. They threw the rebounded curses aside to crash against the walls and burst into red lightning against the wards. Magic rent the space behind Arcana and a large golem trudged out of a dark shredded void in the air, followed by that watchwizard with the jangling bracelet. He smiled and touched one of the charms at his wrist.

A wall of fire flared up behind the golem, blocking the only escape route and painting the street in an angry hue. The witch picked her way over the Inferi remnants and laughed.

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

Arcana dove to the ground, the flash of green light impacting harmlessly against the towering golem. Her dark glasses tumbled off her nose, and her pointed hat followed after, leaving only the weak glamour that hid her face from unfriendly eyes. Svetozar growled and bounded forward, intent to take her piece of Arcana before the wizards charred her flesh. The earring shone like a beacon, and Arcana suddenly realized what it was.

She rolled to her knees, ducking away from another curse, and slashed her wand, slicing off the werewolf's right ear. Svetozar howled and tumbled to the ground, then clambered to all fours, shook her bleeding head, and bared her teeth with a low growl. The wolf's amber eyes were wild, no longer held in check by a human mind, and she lunged for the nearest of the two cloaked wizards. His hood fell back when she latched onto his throat, and blood went everywhere. Arcana sprang to the far side of the golem, using it as a shield, and flung a Bone Breaking Hex at the remaining cloaked wizard. He barely dodged it, and the wall behind him lit up with red lightning.

"_Crucio_," the cloaked wizard hollered back.

Arcana dropped to one knee and leaned away. An instant of agony exploded over her body, but she threw back a nasty curse, which caught the cloaked wizard's left side and spun him into the wall. The wizard with the charm bracelet yelled in Hebrew and the golem suddenly moved, forcing Arcana to roll away as a large foot stomped down on the place she had been kneeling. Flames sprang up from the edge of her cloak where it brushed the wall of fire, and she doused it with a swish of her wand, coughing from a whiff of burnt cloth.

The werewolf tore into the dead wizard. The witch flourished her wand over her head, and swath of crackling copper sparks blossomed across the empty space behind which the Inferi had been hidden.

"I can't crack the rear wards! That Raskovic bastard! We're trapped with that thing! Drop the wall, Gregory," the witch screamed, her terror lit by the orange flames. She backed away from the werewolf, slashing her wand at Svetozar, and slipped on the charred remains of the Inferi. The spell went wide and slammed into the wall, ricocheting down the alley. Arcana stabbed her wand toward it, whipping the magic back at the witch, and then spun aside to avoid another curse cast by the cloaked wizard. It flashed by, mere inches from her face, to strike the wall of flame.

"I can't!" Gregory, the wizard with the charm bracelet, fumbled for his wand and sent a curse flying at Svetozar. The werewolf howled as the spell burnt the fur off her back, and she flung away the dead wizard in fury.

The witch cast a shield, and the rogue spell Arcana had returned smashed into it, knocking her back. The shield failed and the werewolf leapt through the sizzling magic, mauling the witch's throat.

"Yuliana!" Gregory wailed. "_Reducto_," he screamed, launching the werewolf away from the mangled witch. Svetozar howled in pain as her left leg gave out, and she fell to all fours, crouched low to attack.

Arcana's next curse grazed the cloaked wizard, giving her a moment to reach into the wall of fire to unravel the spell, but she pulled back with a snarl, smoke rising from her gloved hands. Svetozar turned her wild gaze to the remaining wizards, blood dripping from her muzzle. Gregory yelled again in Hebrew at the golem and grabbed another charm, his full attention on Svetozar.

Stone vines sprung from the street and whipped about, snagging the werewolf in their grip. Svetozar howled and thrashed as the vines tightened. Arcana ducked under the golem's grasping arm and jabbed her wand at the cloaked wizard, who had made the fatal mistake of looking away. He flew backwards and hit the wall with a wet crunch, leaving a dark smear as he slid to the ground.

Magical ropes shot from Arcana's wand and tangled around the golem, but it broke them without effort and swung at her again as Svetozar howled, shuddered, and died. Gregory spun back around, his face lit with a demonic hue by the wall of flames.

"Die, bitch."

The golem's clay hands came together with a bang where Arcana's head had been a moment before. Gregory cast a Pulverizing Curse, and she ducked behind the golem's leg, which took the brunt of the spell. The fringe of the curse slammed into her right arm, and threw her off her feet. She fell, grunting when her elbows hit the cobblestones, but at least it wasn't her head. Magic ricocheted off of the clay skin and smashed into the high walls of the alley, sending red lighting dancing angrily up to the sky. The golem stepped backwards to crush her, and Arcana darted between its legs, aiming a curse at Gregory. He batted the curse aside, but it left him breathing hard.

A twist of his left wrist activated another charm, and the stones beneath Arcana's feet turned to quicksand. She tripped, sinking up to her knees in the murky cobblestones, but jabbed her wand toward Gregory's wrist. He doubled over, clutching his side, and the charm bracelet shattered.

"Damn you, witch!"

A clay hand clamped down on Arcana's right arm, and she almost dropped her wand into the mire. Arcana's Dark Mark seared, and the Dark Lord's mind dug into their link. Shocked, she froze, fighting his influence for an instant, and then she wholeheartedly showed him exactly where she was. Then he was gone, before she could swear in even one language.

The golem hoisted Arcana out of the muck, dangling her in midair while she kicked uselessly. She switched her wand to her left hand and cast a powerful Release Charm, but it bounced off of the golem and singed her robes. Breathing hard, she struggled to free her arm from the golem's hand, wisps of white hair sticking to her sweaty face, but gave up with a groan. Where was that half-blood bastard when she needed him? This was his fault. Pain shot through her right shoulder, and the itch of black fear skittered up her spine when Gregory looked up at her and smiled. She grabbed a hold of her fury and twisted to aim a left handed curse.

"_Expelliarmus_," Gregory cast. The holly wand flew from Arcana's hand and she stared at it dumbfounded, then snarled, fighting against all her instincts to throw her raw magic. Flashes of memory assaulted her mind's eye – a life bleeding away in her arms as blood soaked into the loam – and Arcana thrust them back down into the dark. She would have vengeance. She would not die here.

"Ah, a fine run, little witch, but not good enough." Gregory squinted at Arcana and snorted. "British illusions. We'll get a look at your face and send you back to your master as an Inferus." He aimed his wand at Arcana's heart, crossing it over his left wrist to steady it. He grinned, but Arcana saw McNair's face, and the Dark Lord's, and then she was back holding her dying apprentice while they closed in to kill her too.

"_Avada_—"

Her instincts took over and she threw all her will against the spell, shattering Gregory's wand. He cried out, clutching his bleeding hand to his face where splinters of wood had gouged his flesh. Magic from the failed spell exploded outward in all directions, and Arcana swung around, latching a leg over the golem's arm and curling to shield her face from the impact. She blacked out for an instant and lost her grip, falling to dangle from her arm, still trapped in the motionless golem's grasp. Her old magical scars ripped her apart from the inside at the use of fae power so far away from familiar land.

She gasped for air and squeezed her eyes shut to clear the sparkles from her vision. A wand, she needed to use a wand.

Gregory lowered his shaking hand, murderous thoughts plain on his face. When he opened his mouth, Arcana whipped her other wand from her robes and cast.

The Insides Out Curse was never pretty, but was certainly more satisfying then _Silencio_.

Her whole body was shaking. She had lost it. She had shattered a wand, and she had to escape before they came for her.

Arcana looked away from the spreading puddle of blood and gore that had been Gregory and contorted her right arm just enough to face the motionless golem, struggling to block out the pain of twisting her abused shoulder. The Hebrew inscription giving it life shimmered on its forehead. Arcana took a deep breath and chanted softly, staring unblinkingly at the inscription. One of the runes vanished, and the golem was rendered a lump of clay. Arcana sliced through the golem's fingers and fell gracelessly into the quicksand. She crawled out of the mire, and flicked her wand, transfiguring the golem into a mound of flesh-eating slugs that slowly slumped into the mire with an awful slurping sound. No one would be reanimating _that_ when her back was turned. The Dark Mark tingled under her skin, and the scars on her magic throbbed like tight muscles that had been stretched too far.

She summoned her holly wand with a swish of her fae-crafted one, along with her hat and glasses. They muted the blazing light of the wall of fire, but the magic of it still scorched her second sight. She hurried away from it, tucking the holly wand into a pocket. After what she'd just done she'd risk wielding her fae-crafted wand if it meant she could kill more easily. Past the corpses the alley was black in her mind's eye, and she raised her wand. There had to be more of them beyond that ward the witch couldn't crack unless Boris Raskovic had declined the meeting entirely. She resisted the urge to rub at her Dark Mark. Where was that misbegotten half-blood wizard?

The Orloj announced the arrival of midnight, and as the last chime sounded, magic shifted, and Arcana spun around to see the mire and the flames vanish without fanfare. She should run.

The sound of slow clapping made Arcana turn back, wand held at the ready. A tall witch with a gaunt face now stood at the corner of Fer Alley, surveying the destruction. Arcana listened for more surprises behind her, but there was only silence.

"Felix Felicis proves its genius once again, but I suppose this means you've proven your worth all the same. Now we'll see if your luck's run out." She glanced at the corpses on the street, sneering. "I told Gregory that he relied on that bracelet too much."

The witch suspected nothing about the shattered wand. Arcana straightened and lifted her chin.

"I am the Dark Lord's emissary, and I would see Boris Raskovic _now_," Arcana commanded, struggling to silence her instinct to kill the witch. It would be so easy. One spell and she would be safe. For a moment.

"Easy enough," the tall witch said.

The witch turned down Fer Alley, and Arcana hesitated. Her status as emissary was denied again. The witch looked back at Arcana.

"The way back is impassable, though you're welcome to try it." The witch smiled. Arcana reached into her link with the Dark Lord, but it was silent, and the alley now glowed a warning red in her second sight.

"Very well." Arcana followed the witch. The Dark Lord would repay her for this, wherever he was hiding.

When Arcana rounded the corner the witch waved her wand, and space appeared to rip apart, revealing a formidable contingent of witches and wizards led by Boris Raskovic. Arcana's heart pounded in her chest, and her fingers tightened around her wand. There were too many to fight. A second witch pulled away from the group and joined the tall one to guard the entrance to the alley. Arcana could barely sense them at her back over the angry buzz of ambient magic.

Boris Raskovic was shorter than the Dark Lord, but broad and muscular with a head of thick black hair streaked with grey. A nasty curse scar ran down one side of his face, and that eye had been replaced with a black orb, making him look like Mad Eye Moody's long lost evil brother.

"The wizard who proclaims himself Dark Lord is not welcome in Prague, witch," he said, clutching the heavy amulet around his neck. Magic pooled into her hands.

"So I deduced from the reception," Arcana returned. The Dark Mark on her arm hummed and then burned. Finally. She swore it was not relief she felt sink into her bones.

"The Raskovic family will have no dealings with your _lord_." Boris Raskovic spat the last word as if it was a curse. "Your reanimated corpse should be message enough."

Two flashes of green light illuminated Boris Raskovic's suddenly livid face, and the two witches crumpled to the ground behind Arcana. Red-black magic hovered at the edge of her vision, too powerful and familiar to be damped by the wards clouding her sight.

"It's bad form to greet my emissary with blood and fire, Boris. Terrible to see such an old family neglecting the proper way to conduct business between wizards."

Arcana offered the Dark Lord a shallow bow as he stepped past her. "My lord," she greeted him.

"Rather messy entrance for you, my emissary," he said without looking her way. His thoughts ghosted along their magical bond and withdrew. In the wake of fear, exhaustion swelled, and she hoped her heavy robes hid her trembling. Emissary and Death Eater were very different things, and tonight had blurred the lines. She would not fight for him. Her Dark Mark tingled as he dipped into their magical link.

The witches and wizards arrayed before Arcana and the Dark Lord reached to draw their wands.

"So eager to die?" the Dark Lord asked Boris Raskovic, a mocking smile on his face. Anger flashed at the edges of his magic, betraying what his expression did not.

"You would do well to take your _emissary_ and leave, Voldemort," Boris Raskovic said. "Your pleas will fall on deaf ears here. The Enclave— "

The amulet he was holding shattered with a flash and Boris Raskovic fell to one knee, hands pressed to his temples. His followers stood frozen, as if Petrified.

A bellowed, _Get out of my mind!_ echoed in Arcana's thoughts, though it had been directed at the Dark Lord, who stood with empty hands staring at the other wizard with unblinking red eyes. It should have been impossible, but he had wandlessly shredded the protection spells bound to the talisman. And she had taught him how.

The other witches and wizards shook off their stupor when the Dark Lord released the spell, closing ranks behind Raskovic as he warily rose to his feet with his black stone eye trained on the Dark Lord.

"I think you'll find that the Enclave will be most receptive to my offer, Boris," the Dark Lord said. "A moment with my emissary before we begin negotiations." Boris Raskovic grimaced, but signaled his contingent to stand down, harshly silencing their questions.

The Dark Lord turned to Arcana. The command to kneel hammered along their magical link, but she threw it off without flinching. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

"I have a message for you to deliver, my emissary." The Dark Lord held out a sealed scroll for Arcana to take. This had not been part of their deal, and she gritted her teeth against a brash refusal. "You will behave in a fitting manner during your short visit." His magic crackled outward in warning, and Arcana lowered her eyes, knowing he could sense her fury. She dared not disobey. Not here.

"The seal is a Portkey," the Dark Lord instructed, and Arcana nodded. "You will return in due time." Arcana nodded again, envisioning his dead body at her feet and her booted heel coming down to crush his wand hand. If he saw her thoughts he didn't show it.

The Dark Lord held out the scroll, and Arcana took it, putting all of her hate into one last glare before touching the seal. Portkeys were just as bad as side-along Apparition if one didn't know the destination.

Prague vanished in a flash, and then her feet hit stone again. It was pitch black, save for a dozen pairs of eyes gleaming over fanged mouths.

* * *

**Next:** "Of Fangs and Fiends." Wherein Arcana is given more reasons to hate Portkeys and demon summoners . . .

Methyl has several more chapters in draft form that need editing and is working on actually writing what comes after that.

If you haven't gotten enough Methylethyldeth yet, she also resides on livejournal, where she posts regularly on a variety of topics. She doesn't bite visitors . . . often. :D


End file.
